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CHINESE RIVER 


By the same Author 

CHINESE DUST 
CHINESE NIGHTS 
CHINESE CHAPTER 


J. VAN DYKE 

Ctijs*. 4xd kw.\j 

Chinese 


River 




Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Company 

Boston 1937 New York 


J 




























Copyright 1937 


FREDERICK ANTHONY EDWARDS 

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be re¬ 
produced in any form without permission in writing 
from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes 
to quote brief passages in connection with a review 
written for inclusion in magazine or newspaper. 



PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 



£)CI k 1 09885 


To 

Jennie Jordan Kissam 





CONTENTS 


Book One 

THE FRUIT BUT NOT THE TREE 

Book Two 
RIVERS ROLL ON 

Book Three 

“FREEDOM IS A MAN!” 

Book Four 

RIVER OF TWISTED STAIRS 






CHINESE RIVER 



Book One 


THE FRUIT BUT NOT THE TREE 







I 


She was gazing out to the darkening Chinese land¬ 
scape from the port-hole of her cabin—a tiny cabin, 
and with no more to distinguish it than its simple bunk 
and a lavatory basin of antiquated design. But it was 
the best that the river could offer. A score of such 
cabins, a dining-saloon that was also a bar, a couple of 
bath-rooms, a shelter-deck for one’s exercise—and the 
amenities of the ship’s first-saloon were almost entirely 
described. For the river is not loved. Few men seek it 
for their pleasure. They say that when the great swirl¬ 
ing mists are on it one may see in them the ten thousand 
unquiet wraiths of that Legion of the Lost; those that 
have sought escape from it and failed. 

But that is another story. Her eyes were young. 
They were liquid and tolerant and brown beneath her 
wide, untroubled brow. Strangely, as she looked on its 
obscene yellow bosom, she could offer the river her 
smile. 


II 

She had come to this ancient, bearded China from 
the great, peopled city of her birth—she, Jennie David¬ 
son, not yet twenty-three. She had been raised there, 
within the hard metallic roar of its suburbs, her Ameri¬ 
can mother’s private income making modest sustenance 

9 




10 


CHINESE RIVER 


for her and an older sister while her father, an artistic 
but ineffectual Englishman, complained overmuch of 
his war-wounds. Then, while he talked grandly of 
university educations for his progeny, the patient, prac¬ 
tical little American mother had died, her income dying 
with her; whereafter he talked of such things no more, 
but asked a certain measure of tolerance for a breaking 
heart that must solace itself in liquor. Thus, at seven¬ 
teen and before she had learned to conjugate her 
French verbs correctly, Jennie Davidson was attempt¬ 
ing to earn her own living; and, if there was a wider 
and fairer world beyond the glittering, noisy metropolis 
wherefrom she wrung her bread, then she might hardly 
believe it. At least, she would laugh at her dreams 
of it. 

When she met Leith Macalister, a young and un¬ 
married probationer in the service of an international 
trading syndicate, and home on his first leave from 
China, she was nearly twenty. Self-supporting now, 
she was confidential secretary to a well-known publicity 
agent. Her sister Ella, two years older, hard, brilliant, 
and sophisticated, was a buyer in a fashionable store; 
the number of her men admirers being as remarkable 
as the fewness of those favours which she bestowed on 
them. Their father, elegantly decrepit, now haunted 
the saloons as thoroughly as their charity to him per¬ 
mitted. If ever their reproaches afflicted him he could 
always defend himself with silvery, tearful self-pity. 
“Ay, Pm an old scallywag,” he once answered them 
theatrically, “not worthy of that gentle lady who bore 



THE FRUIT BUT NOT THE TREE 


11 


you. But be patient, my dears. Only a little longer! 
Last night I heard her calling me. . . . And, Jennie! 
If that young Macalister starts any more nonsense about 
going out to China to marry him, don’t listen. You’d 
never see me again. Yes, it’s as near as that, Jennie.” 

Young Macalister, when he learned of that speech, 
dared to make somewhat bitter comment on it. 

“Sure! He heard her calling him. But don’t worry. 
He won’t be answering her until they bring in Prohibi¬ 
tion. . . . Jennie, I mean it. I’ll send for you, directly 
they give me permission to marry.” 

He did not fail her. Three years later, when he 
had been appointed an under-manager of the syndi¬ 
cate’s depot in Nanking, he renewed his plea. Am send¬ 
ing 'passage-money . Come out and marry me> he cabled 
to her. At which in the Davidson household there broke 
fierce emotional storm. “A hole like China!” her sis¬ 
ter raved. “Dirt, disease, and nothing for your eve¬ 
nings except a book and an oil-lamp. You’re mad. . . . 
And you’re going to walk out and leave me with 
him. . . . His drink, his debts, his doctor’s bills. 
Kind of you, noble!” 

And if their much-discussed father presented his case 
in more dignified light, it was to the same disturbing 
end. . . . “Nanking! That terrible Yangtse river! 
I met a chap yesterday who says the white folk there 
just die like flies. Jennie, if you go you’ll be digging 
my grave for me. And supposing he altered his mind 
and wouldn’t let you send me any cash?” 

Already she had made her decision, however. There 



12 


CHINESE RIVER 


came that day when she parted from them; her father 
abandoning reproaches at the last moment in order to 
borrow a little more money; her sister silent, tight- 
lipped, resentful until she could avenge herself with that 
well-rehearsed good-bye: 

“Well, if you want to come back, I suppose there’ll 
be a roof for you, old thing. But don’t be too long in 
doing it. China gets you, they say. Your hair dries up, 
your teeth drop out. . . . Oh, and widows are slightly 
out of fashion nowadays.” 


Ill 

Leith Macalister had met her ship when it moored 
in the river at Shanghai. In that moment her last litttle 
uncertainty about him could die. Laughing and eager, 
he was detailing his plans even before the tender had 
made the brief journey to the Bund. They would be 
married by their consul at Nanking three days later. 
. . . “Three whole days! A ghastly risk,” he com¬ 
plained almost seriously. “Think of the things I could 
die of. But the consul is away until then, trying to 
clear up a bit of political stink about a missionary chap 
who’s got himself murdered in the interior.”. . . In 
the meantime they would remain in Shanghai, he had 
decided. He had one or two friends in the city who 
had expressed a wish to meet her. And Shanghai was 
a little more entertaining than Nanking, he ventured 
apologetically. . . . “Don’t want to frighten you, dar¬ 
ling, but Nanking isn’t exactly Piccadilly or Broadway. 



THE FRUIT BUT NOT THE TREE 


13 


No permanent waves, no night-clubs. If you want to 
have a tooth out, you either hit it with a hammer or 
wait till you can get down here. Which reminds me. 
I need a hair-cut and a bath. . . . Bath? Oh yes, we 
have a bath of sorts up there. But it’s only an over¬ 
grown pudding-basin. You stand up in it . . . rub 
yourself down . . . hope for the best. And your best 
friends are polite, of course. They call it the smell 
from the river.” 

She accepted that delay gratefully, for after her 
long journey her wardrobe needed a certain amount 
of attention. They took rooms at the Palace Hotel, 
devoting their days to shopping and sightseeing, and 
their evenings to meeting his various friends. 

Then, only a few hours before they were due to go 
to Nanking, there had come that unexpected set-back 
to his plans. Miserably one evening he flourished be¬ 
fore her a telegram. It was to order him to go immedi¬ 
ately to relieve a colleague who had contracted fever. 

In vain he stormed at his superiors over the long¬ 
distance telephone. They fully appreciated his posi¬ 
tion, they said, but there was not another trained man 
on the syndicate’s pay-roll who could be released. 
Moreover, they could not possibly allow him to delay 
the journey until after the wedding. Delay would be 
dangerous, for, in addition to being without skilled med¬ 
ical attention, the sick man was the sole guardian of a 
lonely depot far up-river in the interior and in a region 
that was notorious for the hostility of its local Chinese 
officials. 




14 


CHINESE RIVER 


It was Jennie who eventually succeeded in remind¬ 
ing him of his duty to the syndicate. 

“You must go,” she said. “He’s sick. Think! It 
might have been you, my dear. . . . And if they’ll 
let me, I’m going with you.” 

But that would be an impossibility, as he well knew. 
Too dangerous the journey for her; the syndicate 
would never permit it. Early next morning he trans¬ 
ferred her to the care of his friends, a sympathetic 
young married couple living in the French Concession. 
“Only a week or two!” he said airily, but they knew 
he was mercifully deceiving her. Three months per¬ 
haps ; two at the least! 

The weeks dragged on, relieved only by an occa¬ 
sional message from him. His first letter, written from 
the sick man’s depot, took a whole fortnight to reach 
her. Because he told her nothing of his doings she 
could fear for him the more, for daily the newspapers 
had harrowed her imagination with their stories of 
bandit outrages, kidnappings, murders. But, at last, 
nine weeks later, there came his lengthy telegram. The 
sick man had recovered; Leither was on his way back, 
hoping to reach Nanking two days later. In the mean¬ 
time, and to save any further delay, he was instruct¬ 
ing his Chinese “boy” to proceed to Shanghai and 
bring her to Nanking also. Leither would meet their 
boat. They would marry on the next day. 

“But why the river-boat?” she questioned her hosts 
in the midst of her joy. “I thought the train to Nan¬ 
king was quicker.” 



THE FRUIT BUT NOT THE TREE 


15 


“It is!” she was laughingly answered. “But once in 
a while the railway goes bad. Someone puts a bomb on 
it or borrows it for a war. Still, considering he’s talked 
of no one but you for the last three years, you can’t 
exactly blame him. He’s taking no chances . . . Well, 
this really sounds like a wedding, after all.” 

IV 

The dusk was deepening, giving to the river a strange 
metallic gleam. Still gazing from her porthole, she 
could see on the nearer bank the springing of lights 
within the huddled Chinese villages. She was close 
enough to them to see the pink-washed walls encir¬ 
cling them; sometimes above the rumble of the ship’s 
engines to hear human voices or the barking of a dog. 
And those sounds were warm, human, reassuring, echo¬ 
ing that promise of home. . . . Home! His home, 
hers, theirs! Theirs as long as life, she might surely 
swear. 

A gong sounded. It would be the first warning of 
approaching dinner-time. But she was sure that she 
would be unable to eat. Nanking in just a few hours; 
Leith awaiting her; his strong arms; the certainty there¬ 
after. Dinner—impossible! She left the cabin and 
went on deck. 

She stood there, the cool autumnal wind of the river 
tugging at her hair, while the dusk sank into night. 
There was no moon, but the stars leapt out in an inky 
sky. Unseen, a flight of ducks passed over her, the tense 




16 


CHINESE RIVER 


purposeful sound of them living and dying dramatically 
all in a second. A sampan flashed by, the faces of its 
crew barbaric in the glow of a brazier, the smell of 
their evening meal sweet and drugging to her nostrils 
like incense. And this was the river which during those 
restless waiting weeks in Shanghai had prompted peo¬ 
ple’s pity for her—a sniff, a shrug of the shoulders, si¬ 
lence at the least. . . . “Going to live up-river, eh? 
Well, I hope you’ll like it!” was the best that ever they 
had said of it. But she could not be afraid. She could 
smile to the river and love it almost. For it was bear¬ 
ing her to him. Three little hours, two-and-a-half, one 
more sigh, another look at one’s mirror, a thrill; and 
then—it would have yielded him to her. 

She started. Someone had surprised her reverie, 
coming noiselessly to her beneath the thudding of the 
ship’s engines. It was Mrs. Bender, her fellow-passen¬ 
ger, who journeyed to Nanking also. 

Mrs. Bender, a middle-aged Englishwoman with 
carefully dyed hair, made comment on the evening 
in the tentative manner of one whose friendliness might 
possibly be an indiscretion. But after a while she dared 
to abandon her restraint. She liked this girl, she de¬ 
cided; she must know more of her. 

“So you’re young Macalister’s fiancee,” she was even¬ 
tually exclaiming in delighted surprise. “How mar¬ 
vellous, and what a coincidence! Mac is quite the nicest 
boy on my visiting-list. And you haven’t seen him for 
three years. Well, you’ll still approve of him, I think. 
A charming boy, a-” 




THE FRUIT BUT NOT THE TREE 


17 


Here, however, Jennie had to correct her. She told 
Mrs. Bender some little concerning her reunion with 
Leith at Shanghai. Which set the lady instantly apolo¬ 
gizing. 

“Good gracious, how foolish of me not to recall it, 
Miss Davidson! I’ve been in Shanghai myself for a 
while. But I distinctly remember it now. Mac had 
planned the wedding for the end of August; of course, 
of course. . . . Well, my dear, all’s well that ends 
well. And I can really be the very first of the Nanking- 
ites to congratulate you.” 

Yet suddenly Mrs. Bender was endeavoring to pierce 
the darkness and give Jennie a more interested stare. 
Something in that story of young Leith Macalister and 
his fiancee had now sunk into her mind deeply enough 
to stir her curiosity. 

“So you stayed at the Palace, eh?” she commented 
archly. “Really, you naughty young people! I shall 
have to read your Mac a lesson.” 

But, as quickly, Mrs. Bender redeemed that mild 
reproof with a girlish laugh. 

“Take no notice of me, my dear,” she begged in¬ 
dulgently. “Pm the last person in the world to say a 
thing like that seriously. Why shouldn’t an engaged 
couple stay at the same hotel, especially in these—er— 
sensible days? . . . Well, I must go and powder my 
nose. I’ll see you at dinner. And we must have a chat 
over the coffee, don’t forget!” 

Uttering another girlish laugh Mrs. Bender went, 
but Jennie remained, standing and looking down to the 




18 


CHINESE RIVER 


ship’s well-deck where the native third-class passen¬ 
gers were permitted to take their recreation. Squatting, 
they ate their meals or bargained with the vendors of 
cakes and sweetmeats. A youth of hardly more than 
fourteen, his wrists tied with string, jested shrilly with 
a throng of coolies. He had committed some petty 
misdemeanor at Nanking and was being taken back 
there for trial. He would probably be executed; never¬ 
theless a jest was expected of him; only a woman might 
go to death silent or weeping. But the policeman who 
guarded and escorted him had heard such jests before; 
they no longer amused him; he turned his back on them, 
scratching the ringworm of his scalp while he grinned 
at a group of gamblers. 

The gong sounded for dinner. Jennie Davidson still 
stood there, though she hardly saw that scene. She 
was musing on Mrs. Bender’s parting utterance. . . . 
“Why shouldn’t an engaged couple stay at the same 
hotel?” 

Why not indeed? Why not anything if it enshrined 
truly the unselfish ache to serve and solace one’s man? 
The man who had waited patiently for three long, hun¬ 
gry years—. The same hotel! Nine weeks ago! Yes, 
she could be almost sure—and glad in the knowledge. 

Glancing down to the well-deck again, she was in¬ 
terested in it for the first time. Her eye fell and rested 
upon a sight that moved her inexplicably: within that 
jostling, crowded humanity, a Chinese woman began to 
suckle her babe. 




THE FRUIT BUT NOT THE TREE 


19 


V 

Yes, she could be almost sure of it. She was tak¬ 
ing to Leith Macalister their child. Poor Leith! Man¬ 
like, probably he had never given that possibility a 
moment’s thought. 

Smiling a little, she wondered what he would say. 
But, of her own confession to him she was certain. 

“My dear, I can only be sorry or embarrassed if you 
are.” 

Just that; no more, no less! And though people such 
as Mrs. Bender might ventilate their shrewd guesses, 
no other opinion than his would matter. 

“I’m his!” she had a hundred times hurled at her 
momentary doubts. “His! And nothing else matters.” 

Her thoughts marched on, calmly, serenely. She 
could hear now her father’s elegant surprise as he 
opened her letter and read that news. “Dear, dear! 
Jennie a mother—already! Well, I suppose there’s— 
er—nothing very unusual about it.”. . . Poor Father 
with his childlike respectability ; he would most likely 
go out and get drunk again. And Ella her sister, while 
forbearing to shatter that simplicity, would give him 
her sage, pitying smile. “The little fool,” she would 
utter within herself. “Well, what did I tell her? It’s 
the goody-goody ones who always crash the hardest.” 
. . . But, poor Ella, nevertheless! For it would hurt 
her; she who had sworn never to bring a child into 
the world though a husband might clothe her with 





20 


CHINESE RIVER 


diamonds; she who had cried, “Jennie, I’d rather kill 
myself.” Yes, deep down within Ella would stir the 
ache of her envy. “Jennie is happy! God, why am I 
such a coward?” 

Yes, and that might be a woman’s most satisfying 
happiness, the happiness of being afraid no more. How 
strange that such a simple thing as carrying her man’s 
child might achieve it for her. But it was true; once, 
like Ella, she had feared; she had feared a host of 
things . . . age . . . poverty . . . loneliness . . . death; 
she had even feared the dark. Yet now the secret of 
Fear lay exposed and ridiculous. Fear was only the 
miserable echo of Self. Fear died as soon as Self was 
banished. And Self was banished by that new life 
springing and growing within her. Let her love and 
nurture it, and nothing could make her afraid save her 
own limitations. 

Yea , though I walk through the valley of the shadow 
of Death . . . 

She could understand the old Psalm at last. 

VI 

That journey was almost done. Away to her left 
lay the scattered lights of Nanking. Already she saw 
the huddled shapes of ships and launches at its Bund. 
The sound of a motor-klaxon could almost thrill her. 
Supposing it were his! 

Just as she had put on her hat, Mrs. Bender came 
to her cabin. 



THE FRUIT BUT NOT THE TREE 


21 


“My dear,” exclaimed Mrs. Bender, “you simply 
must let me go ashore with you. I want to see the 
look on the young rascal’s face. Young Mac married! 
Tomorrow! . . . And my husband will be meeting 
me, of course. He’s the ‘number-one’ of the A.E.C. 
here—the Asiatic Electrical Corporation. You and Mac 
must have your first drinks with us.” 

She made no demur, but thanked Mrs. Bender, 
flattered by her frank affection for Leith. “Who 
doesn’t like him?” Mrs. Bender had already demanded 
a half-dozen times. 

.At last the ship was berthed, its arrival plunging 
the quiet waterfront into a chaos of noise and stam¬ 
pede. From the rail of the shelter-deck, Jennie smiled 
down to a clamouring, jostling mob of porters, rick¬ 
shaw coolies, hotel touts, beggars j while, guardian-like, 
Leith’s “boy” who had escorted her gave that scene 
the silent, superior scorn which the trained Chinese 
house-servant can affect so perfectly before his mas¬ 
ters. Artistically, Mrs. Bender echoed his mood, ap¬ 
propriating as her own a phrase which she had once 
encountered in a travel-book: “Hungry China, scram¬ 
bling eternally for its bread-and-^o-butter! ” 

“But, gosh!” she added more personally, “the way 
these filthy mobs are allowed to pester travellers is 
nothing short of a scandal. We need a few more pris¬ 
ons in Nanking, a few more floggings.” 

Suddenly, however, her displeasure at that enforced 
wait was dispelled. 

“I think I saw Claude just then!” she exclaimed. 





22 


CHINESE RIVER 


“Claude’s my husband, of course. I caught a glimpse 
of him for a moment, trying to fight his way through 
to us. Poor Claude, how he hates coming to the Bund 
to meet me! He always swears he’ll get spotted fever 
one of these days. . . . But, my dear, if that was 
Claude, your Mac was with him. They’re as thick as 
thieves . . . play ‘contract’ together . . . ‘snooker’ at 
the club. My dear, our best smiles for ’em . . . No, 
no! I’ve thought of something better. Get into that 
saloon for a moment. When I see Mac, I’ll pretend 
you haven’t come.” 

But now was Mrs. Bender moved to more urgent 
exclamation. 

“Claude!” she cried, and made an impulsive step 
towards an elderly man who came soberly along the 
deck to them. 

“Claude, my dear, how sweet of you! I know how 
you hate it so. And, Claude, look what I’ve brought 
you—Mac’s fiancee, of all people. Miss Davidson, my 
husband! But, Claude . . . where is Mac! I thought 
the two of you would run into each other here.” 

And then Claude Bender stared at Jennie suddenly 
and aghast, forgetting even to raise his hat to her. 

“Mac’s fiancee!” he echoed dully. “Mac’s . . 

He could not finish that utterance. He could only 
stare at her again, marking her beauty, the mute ques¬ 
tioning of her parted lips. 

“Er—how do you do?” he began correctly. But the 
effort failed him. Impulsively, and with no other word 



THE FRUIT BUT NOT THE TREE 


23 


to Jennie, he seized his wife’s arm, dragging her pre¬ 
cipitately into the adjacent saloon. 

“My God!” he breathed to her there, and great 
beads of perspiration stood on his brow. “How are 
we going to tell her? Mac isn’t here, Linda. This 
morning . . . and on this damned river . . . there 
was fighting with the Communists near Wuhu ... his 
ship happened to be passing. Yes, dead! A stray bullet. 
This accursed Yangtse river again. . . . Dead!” 













* 


















» 










Book Two 

RIVERS ROLL ON 




















































- 

































I 


They took him away to burial, their cars following 
him precariously over the narrow, unkept roads. In 
that alien Chinese place where they laid him, the words 
of the Anglican funeral service could seem futile, a 
waste of time, a mockery almost. He did not belong to 
that soil; already his soul had fled from it . . . quickly, 
like a wild bird released from a cage. And that was 
not merely a thought; it was a hope, one’s fierce and 
arrogant prayer. “God!” exclaimed one of their num¬ 
ber who had sought to fortify himself with a measure 
of gin too much. “If ever you chaps can convince me 
that death is no better than dying like a dog, I’ll leave 
this rotten country there and then.” 

The murmured words of committal were finished; 
silently, critically, they watched the coolies cover his 
coffin with earth, ready with reproof against their 
slightest show of inefficiency or disrespect; then, trying 
not to see the grinning Chinese soldiers whom they 
had attracted to the place or the horde of peasant chil¬ 
dren who waited to steal their flowers from his grave, 
they returned to their cars, looking not back. 

And now having mourned him, and handed his more 
valuable personal effects to the vice-consul, though 
wondering how much his servants had taken from him 
in the meantime, they remembered the perils that might 
threaten a man in the chill Chinese sundown. Chang- 

27 





28 


CHINESE RIVER 


ing quickly out of their unaccustomed black while their 
“boys” brought them whiskies, they went to the Cus¬ 
toms Club, where, if those others who diced so noisily 
for drinks could seem to forget young Leith Macalister 
a little too soon, one could forgive them nevertheless. 
And later, when they went in a party to dinner, the 
shock of that happening had begun to wear away. 

“Sure!” said one. “A good-looker! I saw her down 
at the Bund last night when she arrived. . . . Tough 
on her! But I guess she’ll go back. A pity!” 

But the night was not yet done. There came that 
hour when restraint is no longer on a man. 

“Boy, boy! What’s that damned boy doing with 
those drinks? Kuei-ti y boy! . . . Yes, according to all 
the rumours they stayed a couple of nights at the 
Shanghai Palace. Well, you never know!” 

II 

She was stirring from that long drugged sleep which 
mercifully a little German doctor had given her, the 
studied luxury of Mrs. Bender’s best guest-room assail¬ 
ing her unfamiliarly. Still only half believing, she 
was dazedly recalling it all . . . the ship, the Bund, 
Claude Bender’s face, the way they tried to make her 
drunk before they had courage to tell her the stark 
truth. Hot shafts of memory began to stab her imagi¬ 
nation like knives. 

But she could still smile, she could still wish to live, 
she could still crave to remember it all. Better the 
bitter-sweet consciousness than stupefaction. She got 



RIVERS ROLL ON 


29 


from bed and dismissed the amah whom Mrs. Bender 
had ordered so strictly to watch over her. Almost 
punching her cheeks as she banished their pallor with 
rouge, she resolutely faced a mirror. 

“No, my dear,” she whispered to him fiercely,'“I 
don’t want to forget, I don’t want to blot it out. I’m 
glad of it, glad that I could make you happy . . . 
prove to you I loved you. 

“And, Leith, my dear, hear me! Even had I known 
. . . could have seen it coming to us ... it would 
have been just the same. No hesitation, my dear . . . 
yours, yours . . . just the same.” 

Might the dear God make him conscious of it! 

And yet, she must not dwell too deeply in that mem¬ 
ory of him; at least, not for a while. She had to think 
not as they had thought . . . careless, dreaming . . . 
but in terms of that morrow without him. 

“We’ve got to live!” she cried. ... We! She; 
her child. . . . And that word was challenge, defiance. 
We! Because of it her heart, if necessary, must grow 
cold and hard and grim. 

“Yes, we’ve got to live . . . we . . . you! And 
if they make me, I’ll lie for you, cheat for you . . . 
anything! ” 

Yes, easy to utter thus! Where and how might she 
begin? 


Ill 

Her first thought on learning of his death had been 
to return to her father and sister. True, she did not pos- 




30 


CHINESE RIVER 


sess sufficient money for the journey, but there should 
be ways and means of procuring it. Her consular people 
would probably repatriate her at their Government’s 
expense, reclaiming the money from her at such time 
as she could afford to repay it. Yes, and when her 
baby was born, she could work again, hold her head 
high, laugh in the faces of those who dared to pity her. 

But her father, her sister! She did not fear to face 
them, but inevitably it would make her despise them 
even the more. She could see her father’s outraged 
respectability, his panic even. True, he might drink 
himself into insensibility under the slightest emotional 
stress, and make flimsy, lachrymose love to any woman 
who gave him an ounce of encouragement. But he 
had always forgiven himself such sins; they had flown 
from his memory as soon as he could creep home and 
put on a clean shirt. Sin? Well, as he so indulgently 
judged it, a thing was only a sin if one couldn’t wriggle 
away from the umbrage it cast, if it labelled one, held 
one up to ridicule. But . . . “A child? Good heavens, 
Jennie!” . . . While twice since she had landed in 
China had come his letters, subtly mendicant with their 
talk of doctor’s bills and unexpected repairs to the house, 
their hint of her neglect of him. 

And Ella, her sister? Ella’s charity was only for 
those who would crawl in bondage to her. She’d linger 
to hear a beggar’s second “Thank you, lady!” 

No! Rather than seek them might she be condemned 
by heaven itself—and die! 

The hours passed. The afternoon had waned, and 



RIVERS ROLL ON 


31 


sunset had fled from the willows, and they had come 
back from burying her man. And Mrs. Bender had 
come and gone and come again, garrulously sympathetic 
one moment, mutely questioning the next. . . . “My 
home, my husband, my respectability!” Mrs. Bender’s 
eyes seemed to say. “Why don’t you put me out of 
my misery, why don’t you tell me?” 

Yes, she must tell Mrs. Bender. But what? 

IV 

She had at last decided upon something—that pre¬ 
carious, desperate plan. There was one who might 
genuinely be sorry for her, trust her, help her; he, 
old Henderson, her former employer. 

She found a note-pad, making confession to him, 
giving him her fears, her contempt for that word home , 
yet her aspirations and promises also. Would he help 
her until she could help herself? Would he cable her 
some money? For#he could trust her. When she was 
well again, she would ask to return to his office, work¬ 
ing her fingers to the bone to repay him. 

Yes, with old Henderson’s money to help her, she 
might take herself from Nanking, sparing her fellow 
white people the embarrassment which her presence 
would surely give them. In some place on her home¬ 
ward journey she could pause to hide herself for a 
while, prepare herself for her baby’s coming; no one 
need be embarrassed again until it was done, until once 
more she stood free and independent. Better still, no 



32 


CHINESE RIVER 


one save old Henderson need ever know; her baby 
would be her own preciously guarded secret, safe from 
the world’s righteousness, its contempt. 

“Yes, no one will ever know, Leith. And, Leith, 
it’s for your sake too. They wouldn’t understand, and 
I couldn’t bear to hear them say it about you, my dear. 
I’d want to kill ’em, I think.” 

She sealed that letter, marking it via the short 
Siberian route, though three weeks at least must pass 
before old Henderson received it. But she had money 
enough until then, and old Henderson would surely 
not ignore her. She went downstairs. 

“Yes,” she surprised Mrs. Bender. “Much better, 
thank you . . . very much better. And, please, Mrs. 
Bender, you mustn’t worry about me any more. I shall 
be all right now. There’s an hotel here, I think. Leith 
sometimes mentioned it in his letters—the Yangtse 
Hotel. I think I’ll take a room there tomorrow.” 

“My dear, I wouldn’t dream of it,” her hostess 
sought energetically to assure her, but she continued 
cautiously nevertheless. “Er—well, how long exactly 
did you think of staying here? I mean, there’s no sense 
in going to a gloomy old hotel if you’re only staying 
a few days.” 

Jennie smiled, forcing into her answer every sug¬ 
gestion of matter-of-fact reality that she could com¬ 
mand. 

“No, a little longer . . . three or four weeks, prob¬ 
ably. There are Leith’s affairs to see to. I haven’t yet 
met his people, but they’d hardly like it if I left his 





RIVERS ROLL ON 


33 


affairs to chance. Oh, and before I go, I must see about 
some sort of stone for his grave.” 

At which Mrs. Bender stared at her for a moment 
and blushed. What if one’s suspicions about this girl 
were wrong after all? 

a Er—yes!” she commented a little uncomfortably. 
“Splendid! My dear, I can see you don’t lack courage. 
But- -er—where will you go when you leave here?” 

“I shall go back home,” Jennie answered even more 
casually. “I shall try to get back my old job, and I 
think my employer will have me. Next spring he has 
to go to Brazil—a very important business tour. He 
wanted me to postpone the wedding and go with him. 
Yes, I’m sure he’ll have me back.” 

“Next spring, eh? Brazil!” 

And then Mrs. Bender gave vent to her feelings 
in mingling tears and laughter. 

“Oh, my dear, I’m so glad, so relieved. I’d feared 
that—oh, well, you understand! I’m glad you’ve taken 
it so splendidly, so courageously. Yes, my dear, you’re 
going to live again . . . laugh again . . . yes, laugh.” 

Jennie patted her hand. 

“Yes, laugh!” she echoed noisily. “Why not, why 
not?” 


V 

Those three weeks had nearly passed. The leaves 
were falling, the little Chinese children scavenging 
them from the ditches to make them fires against the 








34 


CHINESE RIVER 


chill of late October. The cicadas chirped no more in 
the willows. People put away their mosquito nets. 

Yes y laugh! . . . But none could be more surprised 
at the thoroughness of that laughter than Mrs. Bender 
who had counselled it. 

“Yes, a remarkable girl,” she exclaimed one after¬ 
noon over bridge. “I didn’t think she could do it. It’s 
amazing. A pity I let her go to that hotel, though she 
insisted, of course. . . . Still, it depends on how much 
a woman loves a man, I suppose. Really, sometimes 
you might almost think she’s forgotten him.” 

And there were those who echoed her more pointedly. 

“Yes, I hear she was out at the club last night—the 
International,” Mrs. Bender was informed. “And that 
ghastly Randall was with her, drinking . . . dancing.” 

But the majority of Nanking’s white community was 
not displeased. Mrs. Brabazon, the wife of the Amer¬ 
ican Consul, could report with triumph that Cecil, her 
only son, who long had lamented his unpopularity with 
women, was teaching “poor Miss Davidson” to ride. 
And in the Customs Club, where Nanking’s many 
bachelors drank late and safe from feminine hearing, 
the tantalizing effect of her physical presence had be¬ 
come a profound and almost nightly subject. . . . 

“But a woman’s a woman, all the same. She can’t 
go on mourning a chap for ever. . . . Sure! Any 
darned woman, if you get her in the right mood.” 

She was not unaware of this growing discussion of 
her. She had expected it; encouraged it, indeed. With 
it, their last little suspicion concerning herself and Leith 



RIVERS ROLL ON 


35 


was being obliterated. While, if sometimes she winced 
at the exaggeration which was given to her apparent 
light-heartedness or recoiled from the more ardent of 
Nanking’s menfolk, she might solace herself with the 
thought that in one short week or so she would be free 
from that nightmare, never to think of it, never to live it 
again. 

But she could suddenly question the wisdom of her 
doings. Though it was nearly four weeks since she had 
written to old Henderson, his answer had not yet 
come. 


VI 

When first that fear had gripped her, she was dress¬ 
ing herself for an afternoon drive to Purple Mountain 
with Andrew Pavey, a young American architect who 
had recently come to China under contract to advise 
the Nanking authorities on their new town-planning 
scheme. She had been out with Pavey before, walking 
with him on Socony Hill where the richer members of 
the white community had their villas, or visiting the 
city’s faded and neglected temples. Once they had gone 
to a cinema. And she liked him ; she liked his quaint 
mixture of youthful irresponsibility and earnest book¬ 
ishness j and no less fascinatingly quaint was that mix¬ 
ture of his speech, for, while he had been raised in 
Southern California, a rich and artistically-minded aunt 
at Boston had paid his expenses in an English school. 
But, most of all, she liked him for his obvious respect 
of her. He did not seek to peer into her mind; the 





36 


CHINESE RIVER 


gaze of his rather musing grey eyes could plead for 
her favours yet never seem to explore her. “Er—good 
night, and—well, thanks a lot,” he would utter ab¬ 
ruptly, and go his way. 

Yet, on this afternoon as they drove out to the moun¬ 
tain, his habitual disinterest in her personal affairs was 
more than once broken. He had glanced at her, mark¬ 
ing her silence, her pallor, the deepening hollows of 
her cheeks, and at first he had attributed these things 
to her recent tragedy. But later he began to wonder 
whether her mood might spring from something else. 
He had noticed her trembling hands, the nervous way 
she would start when he addressed her, the excessive 
laughter which she gave him as she recovered herself. 

“Look here!” he exclaimed suddenly, and brought 
the car to a halt. “I don’t think you’re too well. A 
chill, perhaps, and that old mountain will seem rather 
gloomy with no sun about. Let’s go back to the hotel 
. . . hot tea . . . toast ... a whiskey, if you’d like it.” 

She had feared that speech, had half prepared herself 
for it. 

“No! And there’s a spot on your nose,” she retorted 
banteringly. “I think I shall like the mountain, and 
I want some photographs to send home to my—my 
father. Believe me, I’m often quiet . . . irritatingly 
quiet . . . just the outward and visible sign of a brain 
that’s empty. Yes, shake me and you’ll hear the cavern¬ 
ous echoes.” 

He smiled and drove on, but she had not yet con¬ 
vinced him. 





RIVERS ROLL ON 


37 


“That hotel of yours!” he was uttering presently. 
“If you don’t mind my saying so, I don’t like your 
being there. Too many beery bachelors there, and you’re 
the only unmarried girl among ’em, I guess.” 

And then that speech became more urgent. 

“Look here, somebody in that hotel has upset you 
today. Tell me who he is, and I’ll sock his jaw.” 

She had to laugh; so genuinely amusing was that 
boyish unexpected intensity. But in a moment her 
laughter died. She had once encountered that self¬ 
same mood in someone else. Recognizing it, and know¬ 
ing its significance, she could suddenly be afraid. 

“Nonsense!” she reproved him, yet trembling as she 
said it. “They’re all perfectly harmless boys, and I’m 
old enough to take care of myself in any event. But, 
now you mention it, I’m leaving the hotel . . . very 
soon.” 

“Fine!” he commented, but saw her sober head- 
shake. 

“No!” she said. “I’m leaving Nanking . . . leav¬ 
ing China, probably.” 

For a long moment he was silent. Then he made 
answer, staring straight in front of him. 

“I shall miss you. . . . Er—that gateway in front 
of us is part of the old Tartar City.” 

VII 

Well, if Andrew Pavey had fallen in love with her, 
she might blame no one except herself. Too many 



38 


CHINESE RIVER 


times had she been content to accept his company, yet 
never pausing to think of its possible effect on him. 
When, a little while later, he began his clumsy pro¬ 
posal to her, she could not steel herself to cut it short; 
she could only hate herself for a selfish and unthinking 
fool. 

They had reached Purple Mountain, and, leaving 
the car, were staring at the huge stone effigies of gods 
and animals which guarded the ancient approach to 
the Ming Tombs. 

“Yes,” he murmured, as she exclaimed involuntarily 
at their grandeur, “the old Chinese could certainly give 
us lessons in dignity. Still, we moderns are doing our 
best, I suppose. And by the way, when Pm through 
with this town-planning contract, I may have a little 
more to my credit than I possess now. Yes, the officials 
here are giving me practically—er—virtually a free 
hand, so if I don’t show the world a thing or two that’s 
new, it’ll be entirely my own fault. . . . But two years 
is a long time. Yes, for two years I have to stick here, 
and not another darned interest in the place except 
bridge and beer. And I guess Pm rotten at both.” 

“Go on being rotten. It’ll be worth it,” she tried 
to console him. “Think of what people will say when 
you get back to America and show them what you’ve 
done. Why, you’ll be famous.” 

“Sure, it will be great,” he retorted unenthusiasti¬ 
cally ; and then impulsively he made her halt, and had 
seized her hands. 

“Look here, if I sound like—like some sort of 



RIVERS ROLL ON 


39 


ghoul, forgive me,” he blurted. “And if you hadn’t 
told me you were leaving here I would never have 
said it. But I can’t help feeling that way about you. 
Being out here, becoming successful, won’t mean a thing 
unless I can see you again. Yes, call me a dirty swine 
to talk to you at a time like this, but I can’t help it. . . . 
Jennie, I want you to marry me.” 

Jennie! And he had uttered it for the first time. 
But he released her. . . . “God, how, you must hate 
me!” he cried in his sudden misery. 

She did not reprove him. Only did she know her 
pity for him. How like a lonely motherless boy he 
was. 

“No,” she answered gently. “I don’t hate you. 
How absurd to think it. And Life goes on—yes, it’s 
got to go on, whatever our memories. But, Mr. Pavey 
—er—Andrew, it has to go on sensibly, and as sensibly 
as we can make it.” 

She sought to cheer him with a smile. 

“Think!” she continued. “You’re probably talking 
to me like this because you’re sorry for me; or if it 
isn’t that, because you’re a little bit sorry for yourself, 
and I happen to be one of the very few women here. 
If this were America, and two years hence, well, you 
wouldn’t give me a second thought.” 

His mood changed again. 

“Sure of it?” he demanded almost teasingly. 

“Absolutely. Believe me, when I’ve gone, you’re 
going to plan your life just as you’ll plan this new 
Nanking here . . . the sensible foundations first, the 




40 


CHINESE RIVER 


solidity; the ornaments and refinements last. Yes, who¬ 
ever she is, she’ll make you happier in the end if you 
don’t look for her too soon.” 

He grinned. “Good advice!” he exclaimed. “But 
only for building cities. For building happiness, you 
crash in at the first sound of the dance-band; you don’t 
wait till your knees creak. Still, forget it. It needs two 
to take the dance-floor. You’ve been darned generous 
about it, and I’m a crazy bull in a china-shop. . . . 
Cigarette?” 

They walked on in silence for a while. His hands 
were thrust carelessly into his jacket pockets; his head 
thrust back as he whistled. Perhaps he was decently 
content to refer to it no more. Yet she could be puz¬ 
zled at herself. Why should she feel so lonely sud¬ 
denly? 

And then he surprised her. 

“Yes, you’ve got to leave China,” he said, and his 
voice was as calm as those tree-clad slopes beyond them. 
“China’s only safe if you can laugh at it ... if you 
haven’t an ache in your heart. Yes, go back. 

“But, Jennie, it isn’t ended,” he added as he halted 
and faced her. “I mean, not so far as I’m concerned. 
I’m taking your advice; I’m going to lay the founda¬ 
tions first and leave the refinements for tomorrow. 
And that applies just as much to myself as to rebuilding 
this battered old Nanking. But tomorrow must come. 
Jennie, when I leave here in two years, and have some¬ 
thing worth while to show you, I shall be looking for 



RIVERS ROLL ON 


41 


you. Yes, if you’ll accept it, that’s my promise to you.” 

“Your promise? But . . .” 

She faltered, she stared at him, she wept. 

VIII 

Old Henderson’s cable had not come. It would never 
come now. 

Only by the merest chance did she learn it. Her 
father had written her again, praying effusively for the 
health of herself and Leith as a prelude to reciting his 
latest financial woes. So extravagantly did he devote 
himself to this that, disgustedly, she had put the letter 
down half-read, not troubling to look at it again until 
two days later when she was feeling in more gentle 
mood towards him. Then, hidden unexpectedly in the 
most dramatic part of that appeal to her, she encountered 
the news of old Henderson’s death. 

It is not easy for me to beg money from a son-in-law 
who is almost a stranger to me [her father declared 
magnificently]. However , I am sure you will not regret 
asking him . “Cast thy bread upon the waters and thou 
shalt find it after many days” is the biblical injunction y 
I believe , and never did it seem more appropriate than 
now . For I have just read in the newspaper something 
that will interest you . Henderson, your old employer, 
was killed last night with three other people , flying 
back from Paris. Considering your several years with 



42 


CHINESE RIVER 


him and the way he looked after you each Christmas , 
I am sure he has not overlooked you in his will . Any¬ 
how, I think I shall venture on your behalf to address 
a word of condolence to the widow , knowing that you 
yourself would wish to do so if you were here . . . . 

Yes, and he would have done so, the silky old hypo¬ 
crite, sparing nothing in the way of fulsome lavishness. 
Yet he might have saved his time. She had seen old 
Henderson’s will; indeed, in silent approval, she had 
typed the rough notes for it from his own dicta¬ 
tion. . . . “Everything to my wife,” he had ordered. 
“As for my friends and those who have so faithfully 
worked for me, I have preferred to show them my 
affection and gratitude during my lifetime. My friends 
do not need my gifts, and, instead of tempting my em¬ 
ployees to pray for my untimely decease, I have already 
rewarded them, I flatter myself, with modestly generous 
wages, liberal conditions of employment, and always 
a sympathetic regard for their grievances.” 

But too sick was she with shock to give her father’s 
behaviour any more than a moment’s disgust. . . . 
Mr. Henderson dead, poor old man! Old Henderson 
who so much had loved life, who so much had deserved 
it! Well, she could have faith in him again; he surely 
would have answered her. Meanwhile, who had read 
her letter to him? 

But would it matter? She opened her hand-bag, 
frowningly seeking the slim little book in which she 
kept account of her expenditure. 



RIVERS ROLL ON 


43 


IX 

She had not seen Andrew Pavey for three days, and 
for this she could blame only herself. Though she 
could not exactly define her reasons for doing so, since 
their visit to Purple Mountain she had avoided him 
deliberately, pleading, whenever he telephoned her, 
engagements elsewhere. And if sometimes her desire 
to escape him had thrown her into the company of the 
community’s more questionable menfolk, she could not 
regret it. It was safer to go from a man despising and 
forgetting him than to like him too well. 

When Andrew Pavey surprised her by calling on 
her at the Yangtse Hotel, only an hour or so after she 
had read of old Henderson’s death, she could not be 
angry with him. Nor could she hope to hide from 
him her dejected mood. 

“Yes,” she admitted, when they had found the greater 
privacy of the hotel garden. “Some bad news, and— 
well, a rather big disappointment with it. And, Mr. 
Pavey, I’m—well, this is the last time I shall be seeing 
you.” 

He tried to grin. 

“Bad luck!” he exclaimed. “But, last time we met, 
it was Andrew . . . Andy, for preference, though! 
Still, a dog by any other name smells no less foul, as 
the poet said. Is there anything Mr. Pavey can do to 
help you, madam?” 

She shook her head. 

“So you’re going back to England?” he murmured. 




44 


CHINESE RIVER 


“Yes, to England.” 

And then miserably she corrected herself. 

“No, that’s too bad of me. You don’t deserve it. 
Mr. Pavey— Andyl I wonder could you keep a secret. 
Pm not leaving China. Pm merely going to—to Shang¬ 
hai, Peking perhaps . . . anywhere, in fact, where I 
can get—well, don’t tell anyone; Pm looking for a 
job. Perhaps you could help me—give me your advice, 
I mean.” 

“A job!” he echoed, and frowned. . . . “I’ll say 
you’re more in need of a holiday!” he almost ex¬ 
claimed. . . . “What sort of a job?” he asked. 

“Anything,” she answered. “But I’d been thinking 
I might get a secretarial post with one of the big com¬ 
panies in Shanghai.” 

“You might,” he agreed dubiously. “But don’t be 
mistaken about Shanghai. I mean, there are plenty of 
women there already . . . girls from good homes who 
don’t need jobs at all; who just take ’em for the pin- 
money, the independence. And, just to flood the market 
a little more, there are all the ‘russki’ girls, of course— 
the White Russian refugees—thousands of ’em! And 
they’ll snatch at a job for less than what it would cost 
you for a decent room and breakfast. No, you couldn’t 
compete with ’em. Think twice about it.” 

“You’re not very encouraging! ” 

“Sure, Pm not. But I like to be original! 

“Of course,” he added, with a half-teasing grin, “if 
you’d like me to pat your head, invite you to cast your 
cares on me, and say ‘Sweetheart, I’ll get you a job 




RIVERS ROLL ON 


45 


tomorrow/ I’ll do it . . . just like any other bozo 
would. But, as I said, I like to be original. It wouldn’t 
get you anywhere.” 

She was silent for a moment; and then came her 
impulsive murmur. 

“Thanks, Andy! Yes, thanks—very much!” 

She could like him the more. 

“But look here!” he was now exclaiming. “If you 
must take a job, why not in England? 

“Oh, but I beg your pardon,” he added quickly. 
“Perhaps it’s none of my business.” 

She hesitated, warning herself that she must study 
her reply carefully. 

“I don’t want to go to England—at least, not yet,” 
she began at last. “Perhaps I was glad to get away from 
it. Anyhow, you might as well know it; my family and 
I don’t see eye to eye on everything. For instance, 
they’d never wanted me to marry Leith.” 

He nodded. “But England’s big enough,” he ven¬ 
tured. “You don’t have to meet ’em if you don’t want 
to.” 

And then he put that sudden and searching question. 

“Look here, if you’re in a jam—over money, I 
mean—why not let me help you? I’m not rich, but I 
guess I could raise your passage-money without too 
much risk of a headache. And—well, you could always 
repay me when you fell into the champagne bucket. 
Yes, and be honest with me. You don’t have to be 
afraid. That’s just your difficulty; isn’t it, Jennie? . . . 
Money! ” 








46 


CHINESE RIVER 


She would not make that denial too emphatic; in¬ 
deed, how could she logically? But she must be very 
cautious, extremely cautious. 

“It is,” she answered laughingly. “It’s the difficulty 
for most of us, I imagine. But don’t misunderstand 
me. If I wanted to get back, I could always do it. I’ve 
a little money of my own. And, in any event, a woman 
in difficulties can always go to her consul, I believe. 
No, it’s just that I want to stay out here until I can— 
well, until I can make up my mind about my future . . . 
whether I return to my father and sister, or—or, tell 
’em to go chase themselves!” 

“Only that?” he uttered after a moment’s frowning 
pause. 

“Yes, only that!” 

That assurance seemed to satisfy him. As they 
strolled on, he began to smile. 

“Well, if that’s all that’s worrying you, I’ll be a fool 
if I don’t find you a job,” he exclaimed in rising mood. 
“The darnedest fool, in fact! . . . But, Shanghai! I 
don’t think you’re going to find much luck there. And 
it’s rather a tough place for a girl all alone.” 

Then he surprised her with his jubilant laugh. 

“Why didn’t I think of it before?” he cried. “Look 
here, it’s not exactly the Astor millions I’m offering 
you, but, if I asked ’em, these Chinese johnnies here 
would probably let me have an English secretary. In 
fact, I know they would. I was talking about it to old 
General Chan, the mayor here, only the other day. 
And that’s not fooling! When we get those plans ap- 




RIVERS ROLL ON 


47 


proved, I’ll probably need not one secretary, but a 
whole flock of ’em. . . . Yes, I have it, Jennie. I take 
you on as my secretary. I’ll speak to Chan tomorrow. 
And if he doesn’t like it, I’ll bludgeon him . . . 
threaten to walk out on him. Nanking can remain in its 
primordial ooze, or whatever they call it, I’ll tell him. 
Cheers! Find me a hat, someone. I want to throw it 
in the air.” 

“There isn’t a hat! They buried it with him—the 
man who counted his chickens before they were hatched, 
and died of disappointment!” 

But that light-hearted jest masked her pain; the 
sudden anguish of a trapped animal, almost. 

“Andy!” she blurted incontinently. “I can’t, I can’t! 
I’ve got to leave here, I’ve got to . . .” 

Yet she checked that speech, biting her lips, drown¬ 
ing it with an agonized moan. . . . “What am I say¬ 
ing? Leith, for God’s sake help me,” ran her desperate 
prayer. “For God’s sake!” 

Then she found control of herself. 

“I’m behaving like a little fool,” she exclaimed, 
forcing back her tears. “Forgive me, forget it. Just 
nerves . . . not enough sleep. I think I’ll go indoors, 
take an aspirin or two, go to bed. And—well, I think 
you understand, Andy. There’s nothing you can 
do. . . . Thanks! Thanks very much. . . . Good¬ 
bye!” 

He was nodding; dully he was smiling at her. 

“Yes, I think I understand,” he answered, but he 
barred her way. “Sit down!” he ordered her. “Come 




48 


CHINESE RIVER 


along—that seat over there. Sure, you’re sick . . . 
you need sleep . . . and you’re going to get it, Jennie. 
But there are two of us . . . two of us, I said. Sit 
down!” 

Before she could utter her feeble protest he had 
made her obey him. He took her hands, dragging them 
gently towards him so that she must see his face, its 
every fleeting expression. 

“Yes, it’s going to hurt,” he began murmuringly. 
“But it’s like having your head off; it can only hurt 
once. Anyhow, you don’t have to tell me anything. I 
know! And if I’m wrong, I’m not the only one, Jen¬ 
nie. ... Yes, sometimes I itch to smash their comic 
faces, but there it is! You’d better have it! They’re 
thinking, talking . . . those snooty, clever hags . . . 
those-” 

“Don’t!” she cried. “Stop!” 

Yet . . . “What on earth are you talking about?” 
she could still think to fling at him. 

He ignored that speech, smilingly, calmly, as one 
would deal with a too rebellious child. Gently he went 
on. 

“Well, we don’t have to talk about ’em. They’re 
totally unimportant. Let’s deal with the things that 
matter. We’ve got to get you out of here . . . beat 
’em to it . . . get you away. And, Jennie, no one 
need ever know—only ourselves. America, Jennie . . . 
you and I. We could marry directly we landed . . . 
San Francisco. And I wouldn’t muscle in too heavily; 
I swear it. I’d understand, Jennie. Your kid . . . 





RIVERS ROLL ON 


49 


his! You could do as you like—divorce me if you 
wanted to. But you’d be safe . . . married ... no 
one would ever know.” 

She released herself suddenly, tense beneath the 
indescribable conflict of her emotions. 

“Do you know what you’re saying?” she demanded, 
but that pitiful attempt at anger failed her. Bewildered, 
she stared at him, while softly, unperturbed, he smiled. 

“You. . . . Another man’s child?” she whispered. 

Incredible! Obliterating! It left one dumb. 


X 

He would never know why now she was packing her 
belongings and leaving him; he would never under¬ 
stand the secret, precipitate flight that denied him even 
a word of farewell. True, he might decently try to 
ascribe it to her grief and her memories; he might even 
fear vaguely that because of them he had insulted her. 
But the effort would be beyond him. He might only 
think at last that she had found him unworthy . . . 
small and cheap and puny; undeserving of her serious 
thought. And though he had declared his love for her, 
what of it? How could she resent it? For it asked 
nothing more of her than the belief in his reverence of 
her, his patience, his restraint. . . . “You could do as 
you like—divorce me if you wanted to!” he had 
cried. ... Yes, surely now he would deem her cold 
and hard and selfish; yet, more than that—someone 






50 


CHINESE RIVER 


who, having been permitted to see his noblest aspira¬ 
tions, could only mock them. 

And she might trust him. But, no! She must try 
not to remember what he had said. Too mean of her, 
too despicable! One did not let a man break himself 
on the rack of his own chivalry. There was his career, 
his future, the hard-earned place in the world of men 
which so courageously he was planning. .. . . Mar¬ 
riage, the abandoning of all his dreams, the anonymous 
mediocrity thereafter! There would surely come a day 
when he hated her. 

But there was another thing—bigger, more vital in 
its challenge to the imagination, more elemental in 
its appeal to the senses. One did not seek a man as one 
might seek a priest or doctor. One let him come at 
one—free, animal, untroubled! So that pain or need 
or despair must be hidden from him; hidden as one 
would hide a blemish on one’s cheek, or—if one might 
risk bathos—a hole in one’s stocking! Yes, and that 
might be the secret of it all. . . . One asked not a 
man’s pity, but left him careless, unburdened. Only 
thus might he remain to give one’s life its salt, its 
savour; to colour one’s days. . . . Man who hurled 
himself at the mocking, elusive laugh, yet shrank from 
the first acquisitive clutch at him. Man, the wild, 
maned hunter; the priest or doctor never! 

Yet she paused, doubting that thought. What if he 
sought the priest or doctor too? 

She fell to wondering what would happen to him 
when she had gone. He would keep faith with himself, 




RIVERS ROLL ON 


51 


she knew, but—two years! It was a long time, and she 
fancied that he hated China already. Perhaps he did 
not hate the real China; more likely he hated the 
fevered, artificial semblance of it which his fellow white 
men had made for him. She remembered his occasional 
jests at their expense; at the way they herded them¬ 
selves together within the high protective walls of their 
compounds; their desperate attempt to transplant within 
those walls the civilization which they had left behind, 
as though all that was alien to it were insult or a men¬ 
ace. . . . “Smug little schoolgirls,” he had said. “But 
afraid of the yellow man’s dark.” . . . And he had 
sneered a little at the intensity of their pleasures, their 
nightly “drunks” that eased the ache of exile. . . . 
“Half of them aren’t living at all, Jennie. They’ve 
stupefied themselves; they’re merely killing time . . . 
drowning it . . . blotting out China until they can 
escape from it with the few thousand dollars they’ve 
made.” 

It was probably an unfair picture that he had painted; 
at least, an exaggerated one. But it would serve to show 
how little of happiness those two years might yield him. 
He would hold himself apart, alone; his might be an 
exile more terrible than that exile which he affected to 
despise. Strong as he was, she feared for him. 

Which was why she must leave him, quickly, before 
it was too late. . . . “Do I love him? No, ridiculous, 
absurd!” she had stormily answered herself a score of 
times already. “It’s only that I’m grateful to him, 
admire him. Yet I’m sorry for him, I’m afraid for 




52 


CHINESE RIVER 


him. God, why did I have to meet him . . . here . . . 
now?” 

Yes, she must go! For, to fear for a man was to pity 
him; and to pity him was to take him up and put him 
in one’s heart. Whereafter the heart was like a big, 
warm house that, on one’s thoughtless impulse, had 
given a night’s shelter to a starving, piteous-eyed dog. 
“Tomorrow, when the rain is done and the sun shines, 
I’ll send it away,” one had said. But on that morrow 
one had gone and built the fire again . . . and many 
fires ... so that, when at last the rain was done, 
Logic had been banished instead. 

Yet she fought with herself even now. “Life goes 
on—yes, it’s got to go on!” she had said, and it was 
to him that she uttered it. And was it not true? . . . 
Life went on, its griefs receding like departing ships. 
Hallowed, they might inhabit the memory for a while; 
for all time, perhaps. But they went; one could not 
call them back. Meanwhile, Life had cried a thousand 
times, “You thirst, you hunger,” until at last one heeded 
it. And, in six months’ time, she must heed that cry 
more urgently; her child, the matter-of-fact necessity 
that bade grief depart. . . . What if she escaped him 
only to cast herself on someone else; someone less 
understanding, less worthy? 

“Yes, you’re a hypocrite,” she reproached herself. 
“A cheap theatrical hypocrite. Why don’t you go to 
him . . . thank him . . . honour him?” 

But again must live those doubts; the pride, the fears, 
the inhibitions! His career; her memories; the wild, 
maned hunter! 



RIVERS ROLL ON 


53 


At which, lest she change her mind once more, she 
went to the bell. 

“Yes, boy!” she exclaimed to the Chinese who an¬ 
swered her. “Pm ready, quite ready. Take my bags, 
get a car. . . . What’s that? ‘Plenty time!* Yes, I 
know! But take ’em now . . . quickly ... get car!” 

At last it was done. The train was bearing her away. 
She could utter it now, and for that first time be sure 
of herself. . . . She was going away only because her 
man was dead; because no more she might find him 
there. Her man; her fine man still; her fine man ever! 

Only that! Might she die if it were not her heart’s 
own truth. 

“Leith, forgive me!” 


XI 

She had been in Shanghai nearly a month. It was 
late November; autumn was drawing to its close. The 
mists swirled in from the river, poking their long grey 
fingers into the canyon-like streets, hustling the short¬ 
ening days into premature night. But the mists and 
the night were one with the mood that was on her. 
They cloaked one; mercifully they hid one from the 
too inquiring day; like the swathed, cautious beggars 
of the side-walks one was grateful to them. 

Why she had come to Shanghai so unthinkingly she 
could not say. True, the vast commercial quarter of its 
modern International Settlement might offer her a rea¬ 
sonable chance of finding employment, even though 
Andrew Pavey had warned her to the contrary; but 




54 


CHINESE RIVER 


she had surely been reckless. Once in Bubbling Well 
Road she had almost come face to face with one of 
Leith’s own friends; and, again, with Nanking only a 
day’s journey away by river and less than half a day 
by rail, there was always the possibility of an embar¬ 
rassing meeting with someone who imagined probably 
that she was on her way back to England. How might 
she greet Mrs. Bender, for instance? Perhaps even 
there would one day be a chance encounter with Andrew 
Pavey himself. 

And always could Shanghai be as a whip to her mem¬ 
ories. Her first sight of the Bund, where Leith Mac- 
alister had landed with her from the tender, had been 
like the stab of a knife; and when, unexpectedly, she 
had glimpsed the Palace Hotel from the interior of a 
taxi, her hurt was such that she cried out aloud. Yes, 
there was hardly a place that might not call him to mind 
. . . the Canidrome where on their first night together 
they had danced; the little park-like enclosure by Gar¬ 
den Bridge where they would get a breath of air before 
breakfast; North Szechuan Road, where he grinned 
at the din of its honky-tonks; the store where in such 
schoolboyish confusion he had purchased her wedding- 
ring. Yet these reminders of him could solace as well 
as hurt. She might never cross a street without the 
vague feeling that he took her arm and helped her. A 
dozen times a day she could recapture his voice, his 
laugh, the quizzical, teasing uplift of his brows. Yes, 
because it had been theirs, he endured there. 

But sometimes she must forget him for a while. 



RIVERS ROLL ON 


55 


Breakfasting early in the modest apartment-house to 
which she had gone for shelter, she would go out seek¬ 
ing employment. 


XII 

It had not been easy at first to frame the story that 
would convince a prospective employer; but now, so 
often had she uttered it, that she could almost delude 
herself that it was true. 

“Pm a widow,” she might begin, as she carefully 
seated herself beside a business man’s desk. “And I 
ought to be frank with you. I don’t need this job 
for more than a couple of months or so. After that— 
well, I shall probably be returning to England.” 

And if sometimes she became aware of an inquisi¬ 
tive stare at her, she was no longer capable of resent¬ 
ment. 

“Why not?” she had long ago comforted herself. 
“They’re business men, serious men, the only men I 
want to meet. They’re entitled to think twice about 
me.” 

But, unfailingly, her appeal would evoke the same 
reply. Disappointed, she would go away. Andrew 
Pavey had been right! 

When she had exhausted her round of the big syn¬ 
dicates and stores, she turned her attentions to the 
smaller business men, and it seemed at first that she 
might be successful. More at ease because she could 
approach them less formally, she was making a better 




56 


CHINESE RIVER 


impression, she felt. But again she was to be reminded 
of Andrew Pavey’s pessimism. If a man were ready 
to give her immediate employment, he offered only 
what the “pin-money” girls were accustomed to ac¬ 
cept ; such a pittance that, as Pavey had warned her, 
it would hardly provide her with a room and break¬ 
fast. While now, because of that greater informality 
with which she sought these men, she had to be pre¬ 
pared for an occasional insult. 

There was the man who, full of promises to speak 
on her behalf to his various friends, took her to lunch. 

“No, you don’t have to worry,” he tried to assure 
her. “Directly I come back from that little trip to 
Hong Kong! But what about making that little trip 
with me, Mrs. Davidson? And Pm not the sort of 
man to make any terms, my dear. I’d—well, I’d just 
leave it to you . . . how you felt about me, and so 
on. A man couldn’t say fairer than that; could he, 
my dear?” 

Or, if the majority of them were of better stuff, 
then, there were those who could embarrass one by 
their very decency. 

She remembered the genial little man who, while 
unable to help her, had pressed a twenty-dollar bill 
into her hand. 

“No, take it . . . take it, my dear, and forget it,” 
he insisted. “Don’t be a little fool. And if you’re still 
out of a job next week, come and see me again. A 
promise now!” 

But one might never keep such promises. 



RIVERS ROLL ON 


57 


XIII 

If sometimes she felt herself succumbing to fear or 
despair, she usually succeeded in recapturing cheer¬ 
fulness with the reflection that she could blame no one 
for her present position except herself. She could 
blame only her pride, her stubborn independence. Sal¬ 
vation would be hers as soon as she cared to abandon 
those fetishes. Yes, there was still her father; in a 
lesser way, there was still Andrew Paveyj also, as her 
father had recently reminded her, there was her dead 
lover’s own family. 

Though she did not consider it necessary to tell her 

father of her condition, she had informed him of 

Leith’s death almost immediatelv. The news must un- 

* 

doubtedly have shocked him, for his answering letter 
was so affectionately consoling and so completely silent 
on the subject of his own woes that she reproached 
herself for not confessing everything. His next letter, 
which arrived very soon afterwards, was in more practi¬ 
cal vein, however. 

This dastardly killing of a white man must not go 
unpunished [he wrote with his usual extravagance]. 
One hopes that our diplomatic people will register a 
strong protest to the Chinese government , as well as 
demand adequate financial compensation both for your¬ 
self and this young man's family . By the way y you 
ought to let me have their address. I could support 
them very forcibly over here in making representations 




58 


CHINESE RIVER 


to the Foreign Office on your behalf. But y fortunately , 
the Macalisters are by no means poor y I am informed. 
Which tempts me to suggest that y until we can wring 
something out of these ghastly Chinese , the Macal - 
isters may like to make themselves responsible for your 
welfare. Perhaps y indeed, they have already written 
you on this point. If they have not y however , and you 
shrink from approaching them personally , you have 
only to say the word and give me their address and 1 
will suitably write them. . . .” 

She had smiled as she read this. . . . “Poor father, 
how hard you try!” ran her amused, indulgent thought 
of him. But, if he dreamed that her bereavement 
might eventually yield him a few more bottles of 
whisky a week, he would be disappointed. It was true 
that a note of protest and a demand for compensation 
had been lodged with the Wai Chiao Pu y as the Chinese 
Foreign Office styled itself, but, her consul had in¬ 
formed her, the chances of redress were one in a mil¬ 
lion. . . . “A mix-up between soldiers and so-called 
‘Communist’ bandits,” was the consul’s comment. 
“Most likely a stray bullet. Yes, to prove that it was 
anything but an accident will be difficult. And can 
one object if they blame the bandits?” ... As for 
her father’s information that the Macalisters were rich, 
she knew it to be wrong. They were gentlepeople, but 
the War and its financial aftermath had left them woe¬ 
fully impoverished. 

However (she might one day enlighten her father) 



RIVERS ROLL ON 


59 


she and the Macalisters had already exchanged cor¬ 
respondence. Their letter, written after she cabled 
them with news of Leith’s death, was full of genuine 
concern for her. a You must come here and stay with 
us, directly you land,” they had said, and they had 
pleaded that she would allow them to bear the ex¬ 
penses of her homeward journey. “And please always 
continue to think of us as your relatives ” they had in¬ 
sisted. “Don’t be afraid to confide your troubles and 
problems to us, whatever they are.” 

Whatever they were! But she had not told them. 
She had given as her excuse for remaining in China 
merely the lie that she was accepting the hospitality 
of some of Leith’s friends. And if they wrote again 
to her, their letter would, in all probability, be re¬ 
turned to them undelivered, for they knew only her 
address at the Yangtse Hotel in Nanking. 

Would she ever tell them the truth? she asked her¬ 
self now. Perhaps she would; perhaps, indeed, they 
had a right to know that truth, deeming it as precious 
to them as it was to her. 

But not yet . . . not yet! Pride and courage were 
precious too. 


XIV 

She had moved again, seeking cheaper lodgings out 
beyond the International Settlement in a quarter where 
smells, “poor whites”, and the better-class Chinese 
mingled in intimate equality. The floor below her 





60 


CHINESE RIVER 


housed the wife and many children of a Cantonese bar¬ 
tender, his rare visits to them from the hotel where 
he worked and slept being the occasions for much noisy 
quarrelling j sometimes to emphasize his arguments 
he brought with him a sing-song girl from one of the 
tea-houses. On the floor above her lived a red-haired 
Russian woman from whose cigarette-shop in the squalid 
Chapei district one might buy opium. She was rich, it 
was said, but for one in her particular trade the mask of 
poverty might be safer. Lately, a few of her fellow 
drug-traffickers had faced the executioner. There was 
another Russian in the same house, a man who could 
be heard screaming in his sleep. One knew not for 
certain why he screamed, but once he had gained his 
living by sniping the “white swans”—the Chinese fur- 
trappers of the far North—and robbing them of their 
spoils. While, to give the house a precarious respecta¬ 
bility, there were those whose only demerit was pov¬ 
erty itself—the elderly unemployed German baker 
and his wife; a Serbian musician from one of the 
cabarets j the consumptive Frenchman with a Chinese 
wife who believed that he was Rousseau. 

There was also Dora Lenskaya, the little Russian 
seamstress, who occupied the next room. 

It was perhaps because of Dora Lenskaya that one 
could laugh, or put away fear for a while, or, on the 
uplift of a second glass of Harbin vodka, swear that 
the morrow would be rosier even than today. Said 
Dora Lenskaya when first she had heard that story, 
“Please, another drink! Nothing is too bad when you 





RIVERS ROLL ON 


61 


have laughed at it. Please ... sit down . . . drink. 
Think no more of anything bad until you say ‘Good 
health’.” It was Dora Lenskaya, too, who offered Jen¬ 
nie the first opportunity of making her living. . . . 
“These dresses! So many dresses I sew. Please, you 
must help me,” she begged. “Only am I sad for your 
fingers. So beautiful your fingers; a man would kiss 
them.” 

It was good that Dora could afford to pay her for 
hand-finishing the dresses. It could shut out people’s 
inquisitive stares or the embarrassed turning away of 
their heads. It could shut out the rain and the hard, 
commercial hint of the day. When the short wintry 
afternoon was drawing to a close and Dora’s tall, coke- 
fed stove began to glow red-hot in the dusk, Dora’s 
mood would grow wide and warm and protective like 
a great cloak about one. And where was the ill that 
she could not find compensation for; where was the 
fault that she could not condone? 

“Sure! Many Russian girl have baby,” she would 
begin consolingly. “It is because they have horoshia 
siertsa . . . good heart! . . . Because they do not 
like to see a man weep. Da, da! Pravda! . . . Be¬ 
cause man is like baby himself.” 

And then, though it might be for the tenth time, 
she would tell again the history of her own meagre 
years. . . . Her mother, leaving behind her the 
corpse of a murdered husband, had fled from Siberia 
into Manchuria from the fury of the Revolution— 
Dora herself an uncomprehending child. To get bread 




62 


CHINESE RIVER 


for them, her mother had been the mistress of a Chinese 
generalj then, in a wild reaction of remorse, commit¬ 
ting suicide. . . . “But why, but why?” Dora would 
comment on this philosophically. “I too have men. 
When I am fifteen, I sleep with Japanese. He give me 
supper—and his gloves. Neechivo! Mas keel If girl 
is afraid to die, she must do this thing. 

“But now I sew dresses,” she would conclude, as 
though she uttered of a great triumph. “It is better. 
Yes, now I sleep alone. . . . Kak damal How do you 
say? Like big lady, aristocrat. . . . Jennia, little Jen- 
nia, I think you sew dresses too!” 

And a ripe contentment would be on Dora. She 
would look to the glow of her stove, she would get 
up and draw the curtains, grimacing contemptuously 
at the winter gloom beyond her window. “Amah!” she 
would cry to her Chinese needle-woman. “Podjaluista y 
give tea!” 

But often as Jennie sat listening to her, she would 
ask herself unhappily how much she might be im¬ 
posing on the little Russian exile’s charity. True, she 
worked long and faithfully for Dora, often until her 
finger-tips were sore and her eyes ached; neverthe¬ 
less, she felt sure that Dora was paying her more than 
she actually earned. In some of her more pessimistic 
moments she would sometimes give voice to this sus¬ 
picion. 

“Dora,” came once her protest, “this isn’t fair to 
you. You’re being kinder to me than you are to your¬ 
self. And you don’t even want me to spend the money 



RIVERS ROLL ON 


63 


you give me. Why must it always be your food, your 
drink . . . your coke on the fire?” 

Dora Lenskaya shrugged her shoulders and laughed. 

“Two people may sit by the fire as cheap as one,” 
she retorted as she bent over her work. 

\ et sometimes she must gain her point a little more 
desperately. 

“Sure!” she exclaimed one night when Jennie had 
been more than usually restless. “If you would like 
to find new job, why not? Perhaps tomorrow we go 
together and look. Yes, there are plenty jobs, even 
for girl a long time with baby. She can go like red- 
haired woman Shura downstairs and sell opium. She 
can find drunken captain from sea and steal his money. 
She can meet big business man and say ‘Give me money, 
or I speak with your wife.’ ” 

And then artlessly she added it: “Which job do we 
find for you?” 

At which, ashamed suddenly of her stupidity, Jen¬ 
nie sought the other girl’s arms and wept. 

“Pm a fool,” she cried, “an ungrateful fool. I’ll 
stay here with you . . . make dresses ... be happy 
with you. And I’ll sink my foolish pride. Yes, Dora, 
tomorrow I’ll write that letter to Leith’s people. Per¬ 
haps I’ll send them a cable.” 

The little Russian girl could smile again. She went 
to the door and noisily ordered supper. . . . “Amah! 
Zakuska! Vodka!” ... She glanced to reassure her¬ 
self that the stove was red. 

„ “Horosho!” she exclaimed excitedly to Jennie. “You 




64 


CHINESE RIVER 


stay here, good! We sew dresses. We are very happy. 
We want only food . . . warm room ... a little 
drink. Amah> kuei-ti> kuei-ti. Zakuska! Vodka!” 

But to that talk of Leith Macalister’s family she an¬ 
swered nothing. . . . They were good people; she 
would not doubt it. But what if in their goodness they 
took English Jennie away from her? 

The stove would seem less warm. 


XV 

But sometimes, when night had fallen, Dora would 
grimace at the stove and suggest that they go out to¬ 
gether. “Sure, it is dark!” she would say reassuringly. 
“And you can wear my big coat.” . . . They would go 
then to one of the cinemas, or, if the weather were 
fine, take rickshaws to the Japanese quarter, where, in 
a restaurant, they sat cross-legged while the pictur¬ 
esquely attired serving-girls knelt before them and 
fried savoury-smelling sukiyakt. 

Occasionally, if Dora were away talking business with 
one of the various people who employed her, Jennie 
would go out alone j though first must the amah give 
solemn warning as to the perils of insufficient clothing, 
and the Chinese “boy” make ponderous inquiry into 
her rickshaw coolie’s respectability. Then, and confi¬ 
dent that the generous collar of Dora’s coat of Si¬ 
berian fur would protect her in a chance encounter 
with someone whom she knew, she emerged from the 
gloomy suburb into the sophisticated modernity of the 



RIVERS ROLL ON 


65 


International Settlement. She could always thrill to 
that scene. There, like any emancipated schoolgirl, she 
indulged her town-bred fancy in the noise and blaze of 
its traffic-haunted streets; their colour; their tense, im¬ 
petuous movement. So little did they seem like the 
yellow man’s China , so much like the West of her own 
forsaking. She saw the hotels, the shop-windows, the 
familiar international publicity of the cinemas; the 
illuminated towers of the big departmental stores held 
the sky like the garish creations of an Atlantic coast fun- 
city. And, if these things wrung one with a deep and 
passionate nostalgia, they comforted too. The sound 
of a cockney voice filtering unexpectedly through the 
ventilator of an hotel bar was like a great friendly 
hand on one’s shoulder. 

But sometimes, when that sensation of solace was 
most heavily upon her, she would grow suddenly sus¬ 
picious of it. “Why am I here?” she would challenge 
herself. “This place . . . this drug . . . the days 
and weeks slipping by!” Mentally she would look back, 
striving to examine each thought and deed of hers that 
had marked those days and weeks. Coldly, grimly 
she would do it, like a surgeon probing the wound that 
is in danger of healing too soon. And always this ex¬ 
ercise could leave her miserable. 

She reproached herself now that she had dallied so 
long in China. If her thought had originally been to 
protect Leith and herself from scandal, then she should 
have left the place immediately, decently, like any 
other bereaved woman. She should have gone to her 




66 


CHINESE RIVER 


father, her sister. Or if the charity of strangers was 
less distasteful than that of her own people, she should 
have sought it a little more quickly, more humbly; her 
pride and squeamishness should never have been. But 
most conspicuously had she erred in translating the 
needs of her unborn child so unthinkingly into her own. 
“It is not my own life that Pm preserving,” she up¬ 
braided herself. “IPs his! His, only his! What the 
world says of me doesn’t matter. It doesn’t even mat¬ 
ter what they say of Leith. And here I am wasting 
time, like a fool, a coward.” 

So deeply was that self-reproach upon her that, one 
night, as she reached the Settlement, she impulsively 
made her rickshaw coolie halt. Too drugging was that 
sense of effortless movement. She must get out and 
walk. She must seek the antidote of her own physical 
strivings; the hard reality of the side-walk beneath her 
heels. She walked for over half an hour; then, because 
she could walk no more, she paused—wondering if 
she might dare to enter an hotel and rest for a while. 

Yet her tiredness would hardly matter. She could 
laugh at it. For had she not just made her decision? 
Tomorrow, because thought and being and destiny be¬ 
longed to the child within her, and only to him, she 
was burying her pride, and for all time. Confessing 
the truth, sparing nothing, she would write to her 
father, to Leith’s relatives; to anyone indeed who 
might help her in that decision. Tomorrow, also, she 
would beg her way back to England from the consular 
people. Their questions would leave her undismayed. 



RIVERS ROLL ON 


67 


And then she started beneath an emotion half of 
joy, half of fear. Standing by the entrance of the ad¬ 
jacent hotel was Andrew Pavey, in conversation with 
another man. Probably, as the day was Saturday, he 
had just arrived from Nanking for the week-end. But 
he looked pale, ill. Perhaps he had come to see a doc¬ 
tor ; and it smote her conscience now that, since her 
flight from Nanking, she had sent him only one letter, 
telling him nothing of her plans or her reasons for 
leaving him so quickly, but merely offering him her 
brief and inadequate thanks. 

Yet to think of him thus was dangerous. It might 
banish all her fine decision and leave her floundering 
as miserably as she had done in all those wasted weeks. 
And if again he proposed marriage to her, as un¬ 
doubtedly he would, it would help her none the more. 
Marriage with him would be his life, hers; the finer, 
sterner resolution would be swept away in that sea 
of apologetic gratitude to him; she might never re¬ 
cover it; she could never dare to try. . . . 

“Leith! Leith! For God’s sake, help me!” 

Then, because Pavey had turned his head in her 
direction, she plunged suddenly from the side-walk 
into the traffic, seeking to cross the road before he recog¬ 
nized her. Perhaps he had done so already. She did 
not know. She was too occupied for a moment in 
threading a precarious way through that frightening 
jumble of cars and rickshaws. But when she had almost 
reached the opposite side-walk she dared to glance over 
her shoulder and look back. At which she could breathe 



68 


CHINESE RIVER 


her thanks. He and the other man were entering the 
hotel. She had escaped him. 

And then she heard a screaming of automobile 
brakes; her own cry; voices about her that dwindled 
and died. 



Book Three 
“FREEDOM IS A 


MAN!” 





I 


At last did her lonely, questing thoughts find earthly 
place for their trekking. Inquisitive, like one long ab¬ 
sent from a scene, she opened her eyes again; the doc¬ 
tors pronounced her out of danger. But now was 
the winter passing, the old year far behind. In the 
streets, the rickshaw coolies were unwrapping their 
swathed feet and discarding their long, padded gowns. 
With the first bout of sunshine might come spring. 

“Yes, yes!” they answered her. “You’re here . . . 
Shanghai . . . the hospital. Your baby? . . . Yes, of 
course, but quiet . . . quiet . . . you mustn’t talk. 
That’s a good girl. Try to sleep.” 

The spring came, breaking out all in a day, it seemed. 
The sap seized the willows; cool, frosty almond-blos¬ 
som held the park. There came Easter, the nervous, 
palpitating Easter of the American or European wherein 
he played golf a little more, drank a little more, and 
cursed its brevity. There came the Russian Easter fol¬ 
lowing it; the poorer, heartier time of coloured eggs, 
of zakuska , of swift gulpings from tiny glasses of 
vodka. . . . “Christ is risen!” one must say, and for¬ 
get poverty for a day, forget exile. “ Da y da! Christ is 
risen, indeed.” One ran into one’s neighbor’s house 
and kissed him. . . . The sun blazed, the almond 
blossom died; soon might one hate the summer heat. 

71 







72 


CHINESE RIVER 


“Yes, you had an accident,” they told her. “Con¬ 
cussion. A few broken bones. What’s that? A baby? 
Whose baby? . . . Oh yes!” 

Indeed, they had almost forgotten it. But now they 
might tell her. Her baby was never born. Too pre¬ 
carious had been that breath of life for two of them 
to subsist upon it. One of them was no more. 

“Never born?” she whispered unbelievingly. 

At which they smiled and nodded, searching their 
memories, reassuring themselves that they had not 
been wrong about her . . . Jennie Davidson, a woman 
unmarried, from the Russian quarter. 

“Well!” they exclaimed, and shrugged their shoul¬ 
ders sagely, and smiled again, and moved away. 

A few tears might do her good. 

II 

Only two people came to visit her—an overworked 
hospital chaplain and faithful Dora Lenskaya. And, 
in all that time during which she lay unconscious, only 
three letters had come for her, these being from her 
father, and reaching her only because, just before her 
accident, she had given him her new address. Other 
and probably more important letters had surely been 
sent to her at Nanking, but she was hardly likely to 
receive them now; they would long ago have been 
returned to their senders. Her father’s last letter, in¬ 
cidentally, was many weeks old, and definitely it ex¬ 
pressed his displeasure with her. Perhaps, as she had 




73 


“freedom is,,a man!” 

ignored so many of his appeals for money, he would 
not write her again. 

But it seemed strange at first that Andrew Pavey 
had not found her there, for her accident had been 
reported in all the newspapers, she discovered from 
a nurse. It was possible, however, that he did not often 
read the Shanghai newspapers, though they were to be 
found in any Nanking club or home. Anyhow, and 
whatever the explanation, he had not come, nor writ¬ 
ten. She could not be sorry—not even now. 

The days passed. Hobbling with a stick, she could 
now seek the hospital grounds, where in the shade of 
a tree Dora Lenskaya would sometimes sit and chat 
to her. And so studiously bright could Dora’s chatter 
be, telling never of hurt or grief or misfortune or hun¬ 
ger, but only of the good things that had happened to 
people, or the things that one might laugh at. . . . 
The unemployed German baker had won a prize in a 
sweepstake, for instance. Sarah Eiter, the big woman 
who lived next door, had curbed her husband’s infi¬ 
delity by hiding his only pair of trousers. But some¬ 
times must Dora abandon that chatter, delivering her¬ 
self of a pardonable curiosity. 

What were Jennie’s plans for the future? she had 
to ask. 

At which Jennie’s smile would falter and flee, and 
her thoughts go precipitately back to that moment 
when they had uttered it. . . . Her baby dead! Never 
born! 

“I don’t know,” she once answered, and her gaze 





74 


CHINESE RIVER 


was unseeing, remote. “Perhaps I’ll go home; per¬ 
haps I’ll stay here and find work. It doesn’t matter— 
at least, not until they let me out of here. . . . But, 
Dora, tell me! What do they do with babies that 
aren’t properly born? They wouldn’t tell me.” 

“But I am worried for you,” the little seamstress 
protested one day. “You can’t think always of him or 
baby. You must think of tomorrow too. Yesterday is 
pain, tomorrow is happiness—yes, like a tooth out. Yes¬ 
terday is finished. Perhaps you let me speak to British 
Consul for you.” 

Jennie checked her sigh and smiled. 

“Perhaps,” she agreed. “But why must tomorrow 
be better than yesterday, only because it has no pain? 
Pain can be living . . . feeUng . . . 'progressing 
somewhere .” 

But she would not continue that argument. Dora 
might not understand, and had not her faithful heart 
been wrung enough already? It must be wrung no 
more. When next Dora came she must be rewarded 
only with laughter, cheerfulness, gratitude. 

“See!” she surprised her one afternoon. “I’ve writ¬ 
ten to my sister. You can read the letter—yes, and 
post it for me. No, I haven’t told her a thing, except 
that I’ve had an accident. She wouldn’t like it; she 
thinks I’m fool enough already. But I’ve said I may 
be home in the autumn. I’ve asked her to find me a 
job to do.” 

“Good! And those other people—the parents of 
Mr. Macalister?” 




75 


“freedom is a man! ” 


“Well, it doesn’t matter now, does it?” Jennie re¬ 
torted, though she still must suppress a wince of pain. 
“I mean, I can’t very well ask them for money if 
I’ve no one to support except myself. 

“Still,” she added reassuringly, “if you think I 
ought to keep up correspondence with them, I will. 
Er—yes, I’ll write them tomorrow—tonight.” 

At which the Russian girl was happy. 

“Good! Good!” she exclaimed, and wept a little. 
“You go back . . . your father, your sister . . . you 
find job. You laugh again. All is happy like story¬ 
book. . . . And one day too you find good man.” 

But Jennie shook her head. Her smile was gone. 

“No!” she whispered absently. “Not that! Not 
that! ” 

And yet she reproached herself again. Why sad¬ 
den Dora with things which she herself could only 
half express? 

She laughed suddenly and noisily, though striving 
not to be too hypocritical. 

“Dora, believe me, I don’t yet know my own mind. 
How can I? . . . But, another man? Why wish more 
trouble on me? Dora, I’m free. Let’s be content with 
that. I’m free.” 

She laughed again. 

“Give me a cigarette,” she exclaimed. 

But, surprisingly, the little Russian seamstress did 
not share that laughter. Freedom! Her Slavonic soul 
must ponder that word. Freedom! It was a mighty 
word for a woman to be uttering. One might only 



76 


CHINESE RIVER 


whisper it respectfully, tentatively, as one breathed of 
an immeasurable and unknown deity. 

She shrugged her shoulders. 

“Free!” she echoed. “Well, you are English—dif¬ 
ferent, perhaps. But, Woman is never free. Only Man 
is free—because he thinks with stomach and not heart. 
Yes, freedom has a beard, my mother did say. Free¬ 
dom is a man!” 


Ill 

The summer had come; swift, staggering, like the 
suddenly released blast of air from a furnace. It was a 
city of sloth and thirst and whirring electric fans; of 
half-checked smells and sudden, acute illness. A little 
prematurely they released Jennie Davidson from hospi¬ 
tal, advising her to escape the heat and seek a sea- 
beach. In any event, they needed her bed. She 
thanked them gravely; then went back to the unventi¬ 
lated suburb with Dora Lenskaya. 

But the Russian girl would not let her work any 
more. 

“No, no, you are still sick, and there is money,” 
she said. “See, I have sold your best dresses. Girls 
did like them because they were new and from Lon¬ 
don. But you do not stay too long. Too hot it is here. 
When do you see British Consul?” 

That question, asked so often, could bring Jennie 
face to face with reality, yet a reality which, strangely, 
she had always striven to avoid. 

“Yes, I suppose I must go back,” she murmured 



77 


“freedom is a..man!” 

now, but she hardly heard herself speak. . . . They’ll 
have put the stone upon his grave,” ran her absent 
thoughts. 

But Dora’s voice was rousing her. 

<( Tshort!” came her practical misinterpretation of 
that silence. “If you are afraid to ask consul for money, 
I will ask him instead.” 

Jennie smiled and pinched her cheek. 

“I’m not afraid of him. Probably he’s a very charm¬ 
ing man, and I could always retain the—er—imperish¬ 
able British dignity by promising to repay him. But 
what a waste of money on one miserable woman, espe¬ 
cially if she didn’t happen to be happy in England. 
Why couldn’t I get a job and try to be happy here, for 
instance?” 

At which she knew Dora’s fierce scorn. 

“Here!” she echoed as she wiped her glistening 
brow. “Such heat, such smells, such Chinese every¬ 
where! Poof! This country that you hate . . . this 
country that has killed your man.” 

“Perhaps I don’t hate it, Dora,” she whispered. 

“Perhaps, because of him, I can’t hate it,” she almost 
added. 

“But could she have added it?” she asked herself 
next. . . , The days and weeks and months that sped 
one on with them! The griefs receding like departed 
ships! 

She would not trust herself to speak then; but later 
she had made her decision. And she would not de¬ 
part from it, she promised herself. 





78 


CHINESE RIVER 


“Happiness can be anywhere , Dora,” she said, mus¬ 
ingly. “In a bog; in a dungeon; sitting on top of a 
pole—if you like sitting on top of a pole. Still, until 
it takes me by surprise, I think I’ll pursue the prac¬ 
tical course. I’ll go back. I’ll pretend that a woman’s 
mission in life is catching trains, tapping typewriters. 
Yes, even if that consul man wants to send me home 
by steerage, I’ll let him. I’ll go and see him today.” 

IV 

When that evening she entered the friendly-look¬ 
ing compound of the British Consulate-General, she 
discovered that its offices had long ago been closed for 
the day. She smiled at herself for her foolishness, but 
she would go there again in the morning, she resolved. 
Then, drawn by the ever-fascinating spectacle of the 
waterfront, she lingered on the Bund for a while, gaz¬ 
ing out to the great grey hulks of the various Eu¬ 
ropean battleships, and the distant liners lower down 
the river’s reach. While, nearer, were the fussy tend¬ 
ers and launches that served them; the strange-sailed 
native junks going out on the tide; the straining, oared 
sampans breasting the choppy, yellow flood like rakish- 
moving water-spiders. 

But it was hot; still too hot, despite the hint of sun¬ 
set. She pitied her fellow white men who, notwith¬ 
standing their suits of “palm-beach” or linen, must 
adhere to their townish collars and ties. Presently, 
when she had crossed Garden Bridge and saw the Astor 



79 


“freedom is a man!” 

House Hotel, she could not resist the temptation to 
seek its cool interior and order a soft drink. And if 
anyone recognized her—Leith’s friends, or someone 
from Nanking—it would hardly matter now. She was 
free, she had boasted to Dora; in a few days, a week 
or two at the most, she was going home. Yes, if only 
she could banish those ghosts of the yesterday, Freedom 
might be better after all. 

But could she banish them? Instead of a soft drink, 
she amateurishly ordered a gin-sling. 

She had not been there long when she became aware 
of a man seated alone at the next table. She judged 
his age to be about thirty-eight, his nationality English. 
He wore a new dinner-jacket, and she frowned a little 
at the flower in its lapel. But he looked harmless and 
friendly, though once or twice he had sought to meet 
her gaze. Presently, however, he surprised her by get¬ 
ting up and approaching her. 

“Excuse me,” he said, “but I saw you up at the 
hospital last week. I was there, visiting a—well, a 
girl who works for me. You were sitting under a 
tree, and I-” 

He checked himself, slightly abashed by her sur¬ 
prised, defensive stare. 

“Well,” he concluded precipitately, “I’m glad to see 
you out again. You looked kind of lonely up there.” 

At which her embarrassment was forgotten. She 
had heard the voice of her native London; and, not¬ 
withstanding his dinner-clothes, a very homely and 
workaday London too! In just that same accent might 






80 ' 


CHINESE RIVER 


she have been addressed by a milk-roundsman or a bus- 
conductor. 

Because his presence was so amusingly perplexing, 
she bade him sit down. 

“So, you’re from London!” she said. “Which part?” 

He reddened suddenly, so that later she reproached 
herself for the thoughtlessness of that speech. . . . 
“Well, I’m English, but I’ve been around,” he was de¬ 
fending himself awkwardly. “South America, the 
States, Canada, Japan!” 

And then abruptly he delivered himself of that con¬ 
fession. 

“Yes, I’m from London! But how did you know 
it?” 

She smiled indulgently. She must not hurt him. 

“Well,” she began gently, “you sound just a little 
like a Londoner ... a word here and there, I mean. 
And only a Londoner would have the—well, the 
courage to address himself to an unknown woman, and 
—and yet not offer his name. Mine is Davidson—Jen¬ 
nie Davidson.” 

At which he reddened again. 

“The name is Hinty—Daniel Hinty,” he answered 
and fished in his pockets as though he might be seeking 
a card-case. “But don’t ask me to be proud of being a 
Cockney. I’m trying to forget it. Out here it don’t 
get you nowhere. If a man’s going to get on, it’s 
swank . . . side . . . and plenty of it! If they think 
you’re dirt, the other white folks here won’t look at 
you. Yes, I’m aiming big; I mean to. And that’s the 



81 


“freedom is a man!” 


only way of doing it. . . . What about a drink?” 

Jennie could not take offense at his obvious friendli¬ 
ness. She thanked him gravely. “But a coffee this 
time, if you please. Mr. Hinty, what is your work out 
here, may I ask?” 

He paused for a moment; then, grinning, he made 
answer. 

“Well, perhaps you wouldn’t call it work at all, 
though it keeps me busy enough. I’ve got a cabaret 
up in Tsingtao. You know the sort of place I 
mean . . . stage-turns; a dance-band; Russian part¬ 
ners for the boys who come in on the spree. 

“But perhaps you haven’t been to one,” he added 
hastily. “No, I guess you haven’t. Anyhow, I’ve been 
down here looking for new girls . . . singers . . . 
solo-dancers . . . Russians, of course. I’m taking ’em 
back with me next week. With a bit of luck this season, 
I’ll make it the finest show in Tsingtao.” 

“Tsingtao! I don’t know it,” she said, at which he 
smiled gratefully, and plunged into that garrulous 
information. 

“It’s up in the Yellow Sea, about four hundred miles 
from here. The Germans built it . . . fine brick 
houses, hotels, shops, promenades, a pier. Then, dur¬ 
ing the War, the Japs pinched it. After that, the 
League of Nations pinched it . . . gave it back to the 
Chinks. And a fine mess they’re making of it. Still, 
it’s better than here. ... Yes, the finest cabaret in 
Tsingtao.” 

Yet he frowned suddenly; at his plump, somewhat 





82 


CHINESE RIVER 


nervous hands, the flower in his coat, the people drift¬ 
ing in to take cocktails. 

“Huh, but sometimes I hate it!” he declared. “This 
afternoon I was nearly chucking it up . . . selling 
out . . . moving on. What’s the good of making 
pots of money if you’re getting nothing out of it?” 

It was a starveling sort of utterance to be giving 
him, but she could think of nothing better. 

“It depends on what you’re looking for.” 

At which he frowned again. 

“I’m looking for something I’m never likely to find 
in Hinty's Cabaret he answered. 

She did not understand. She let him talk on. 

“Sure, I’ve got enough to live on,” he continued 
bitterly. “Plenty! But it spoils you, makes you dis¬ 
contented, greedy for more. . . . No, not for more 
money j for something money can’t buy.” 

He paused. He tried to grin. 

“I guess you wouldn’t understand,” he exclaimed. 
“You couldn’t. But I’ll tell you something, and I’ll 
risk your laugh. Ever since I was able to read a book 
or a newspaper I’ve dreamed that money would give 
me the sort of things that go with money . . . breed¬ 
ing . . . education . . . the polished article. Me! 
Danny Hinty! Yes, and now you’d better have it. My 
mother was an Islington washerwoman . . . used to 
keep me indoors most of the evening, turning the blink¬ 
ing mangle for her. 

“And that’s the milk in the coconut,” he concluded 
with a grim little laugh at himself. “Danny Hinty, 



83 


“freedom is a man! ” 


the washerwoman’s son—trying to be a gentleman.” 

“Why not?” she murmured, but he shook his head. 

“Why not?” he echoed. “But you haven’t seen the 
grin on people’s faces when the washerwoman’s son 
puts on a dress-suit and tries to be as good as they 
are. You haven’t felt what it is to catch yourself drop¬ 
ping an aitch in front of ’em. No, it doesn’t work! 
You can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. . . . 
And that’s why sometimes I say I’m chucking it all.” 

Yet to sympathize with him would hardly help him, 
she decided. 

“Really, Mr. Hinty, you’re suffering from a big dose 
of inferiority complex,” she chided him laughingly. 
“Blame the heat. And I’m sure that people think noth¬ 
ing of the sort about you—at least, not the right people. 
As for the others—well, they’re only those whose 
opinions don’t matter two hoots. Gosh! If we all 
talked like wireless announcers what a ghastly, treacly 
world this would be. Yes, you’ve got to see it through, 
Mr. Hinty. Don’t worry about anything except being 
your natural self. An ounce of cheerful honesty is 
worth all the so-called breeding in the world.” 

At which slowly he grinned his gratitude. 

“Well, I’m glad you think so,” he said. “They 
don’t matter two hoots, eh? Nice expression —two 
hoots! Just the sort of talk they use themselves. Two 
hoots! But, if only I could have you up there and let 
a few of ’em hear you say it. . . . God, if only you 
were my sister, say!” 

And then he fell abashed. 






84 


CHINESE RIVER 


“Sorry,” he exclaimed. “That’s hardly the way to 
talk to you, I guess.” 

She laughed. “Don’t apologize. I think I under¬ 
stand,” she said. “But, Mr. Hinty, perhaps your only 
trouble is that you’re lonely. I’d been hoping to hear 
you were married.” 

He grinned again, yet he could give her his dis¬ 
creetly searching glance. 

“So, you think I’d make a fist of it—a success, I 
mean?” he demanded almost boisterously. 

“Yes, why not?” 

“And what about that girl you went to see in hospi¬ 
tal last week?” she could not resist adding teasingly. 
“I think I saw you. You were taking her some flow¬ 
ers.” 

“Nadya! Nadya Skolnikova!” he uttered. “Yes, 
she came down here for an operation—appendicitis. 
Been with me for a long time now—ever since I started 
the racket.” 

He was thoughtfully silent for a moment; then he 
gave her his frank, smiling gaze again. 

“Forget it. There’s nothing in it,” he assured her. 
“No, the sort of girl who’d marry me is the girl I 
don’t particularly want. And the right sort? . . . 
Well, I’d be aiming too ’igh—too high. I guess I’ll 
wait until I’ve lost a few of my rough edges.” 

And then, seeing her look at her watch, he laughed. 

“My God, I’m as cheerful as a wet Sunday. You’ll 
be thinking I’m always feeling sorry for myself. And 
I’m keeping you. Anyhow, it was good of you, Miss 





85 


“freedom is a man!” 


Davidson. You’ve cheered me up. Pm going to take 
your advice . . . see it through. Pm not going to 
car t two hoots! . . . Two hoots! Yes, it sounds good.” 

Yet, encouraged by her relieved smile, he lingered; 
giving her his silent, dog-like admiration in a gaze 
that was almost ludicrous. 

“I guess I bore you, but see me again,” he sud¬ 
denly begged. 

She was getting up to go. 

“I don’t think I can,” she answered. “You see, in a 
few days’ time Pm probably going back to England.” 

His optimistic grin died. 

“England, eh? Well, it’s just my usual luck. Why 
is it that the only people who seem to be catching boats 
as soon as you meet ’em are the-?” 

He could not find words for that description. He 
grinned again. 

“Well, I saw you sitting under that tree,” he blurted 
awkwardly. “You looked good . . . fine ... a thor¬ 
oughbred. You don’t meet thoroughbreds every day, 
and—well, look here! See me if it’s only for an hour. 
It would help. You wouldn’t know how it would 
help.” 

She hesitated for a moment; and then, hating to be 
churlish, she nodded. 

“Very well,” she said, “if you still feel the same 
way about it in two or three days’ time, let’s meet . . . 
next Friday, say, when I’ve finished my packing. I’ll 
come to this lounge for tea.” 

But she would not let him escort her home. The 






86 


CHINESE RIVER 


undistinguished tenement-house might lessen his joy¬ 
ous faith in that linguistic acquisition, two hoots . 

V 

Arrayed faultlessly in a new palm-beach suit, Daniel 
Hinty kept that appointment. They took tea; then, at 
his suggestion, they went out to the Country Club, of 
which, apparently, he was a member. 

“Yes,” he was remarking for the second time over 
cocktails, “things have seemed a lot different since I 
met you. Pve been getting more of a laugh out of 
life. 

“And look here!” he added gustily. “Meeting you 
has given me an idea. Tomorrow Pm putting an ad¬ 
vertisement in the papers. Pm trying to find someone 
to come back to that cabaret with me—someone like 
yourself j a real hundred-per-cent-er; a real two- 
hooter! ” 

She laughed to mask her surprise. 

“You’re very flattering,” she said. “But what do 
you intend doing with this paragon of perfection?” 

“Well,” he began, and frowned undecidedly for a 
moment. “I suppose I’ll have to call her a ‘lady-sec¬ 
retary.’ But she’ll be something more than that, I 
guess . . . someone who’ll put me right when Pm 
using the wrong knife and fork; someone who’ll tidy 
up my grammar and teach me how to talk. Yes, but 
someone who’ll show me how to keep my chin up, all 
the same.” 



87 


“freedom is a man!” 

He paused, blushing a little. 

“But don’t take it the wrong way,” he pleaded. 
“Nothing phoney about it. A lady like yourself, I 
mean; a sort of sister to me; nothing more. And she 
won’t want for nothing. She can ask whatever she fan¬ 
cies . . . dresses ... a car ... a thousand ‘bucks’ 
a month if she wants it. The place’ll be hers to run 
it how she likes. And me? Well, I’ll just be learning 
how to live in it properly.” 

But he checked himself. 

“No, I’m just dreaming again—like the fool I am. 
I wouldn’t get her. The sort I’d get wouldn’t be a 
lady at all; no, of course she wouldn’t. She’d be cold 
. . . hard ... an imitation. And while she took my 
money, she’d laugh at me, too . . . Danny Hinty, 
the poor fool of a washerwoman’s son!” 

And then he looked at her—long, desperately, be¬ 
seechingly. 

“God, I’m insulting you, but if only it was you!” he 
cried. 

She was silent. But she need not be too much dis¬ 
mayed by that speech, she reminded herself. What did 
it matter? In two short days she was leaving Shanghai; 
already the consul’s papers were in her hand-bag. She 
would never see Hinty again. 

“Well, you might at least wish for someone a little 
more weather-proof,” she retorted gaily. “This heat 
is making a wet rag of me.” 

They returned eventually to the Settlement, dining 
at one of the hotels. They were not dressed for din- 





88 


CHINESE RIVER 


ner, but, at her own suggestion, they got up and danced 
occasionally, he apologizing for his lack of proficiency. 

. . . “Still,” he murmured, “I’ve never watched a good 
dancer without wondering whether he puts scent behind 
his ears. Christ scourged the money-changers from the 
Temple, they say. I wonder what He’d do with some 
of the nits that use my cabaret!” 

Then, with the heat defeating him, they sat down; 
he ordered champagne. 

“But 1 won’t find her!” he persisted. 

She glanced a little nervously about her. Probably 
he was now slightly drunk. Yet she could not ignore 
the misery in his voice, the senseless adoration. 

“Does it matter so very much if you don’t find her?” 
she retorted. At which came his instant answer. 

“Matter! Of course it matters! You’ve shown me 
what Pm really looking for. My God, Pd go on my 
hands and knees for it. I’d-” 

“Please!” she silenced him. “Please, you mustn’t,” 
she begged. “It wasn’t intended that anyone should 
think of himself like that. It makes life false, horrible, 
cruel. And, listen to me. Any woman would help you; 
any decent woman . . . and not want money . . . not 
laugh at you.” 

* 

“Any woman?” 

“Yes, any woman.” 

At which unconsciously he leaned across the table to 
her, recking not the amused, speculative glances which 
people were giving him. 

“Any woman?” he echoed, and a beggar might have 
smiled thus at seeing his palm filled with gold. 




89 


“freedom is a man!” 

She forced herself to return that smile. 

“Why not?” she retorted. “But, careful!” she whis¬ 
pered. “People are staring at us. Perhaps we ought 
to go.” 

Which set him instantly apologizing. 

“My God, what a street-arab I am! Can’t behave 
myself even when Pm with someone like you. Still 
. . . any woman! ” 

He could not find words with which to complete that 
speech. Merely did he gaze at her in a great, ridicu¬ 
lous-seeming gratitude. 

He replenished his glass. Less haunted by his 
thoughts now, he talked on: jesting to her of his early 
upbringing, his life in the Islington slums. He had 
worked as an errand-boy, he said; on the racecourses; 
he had tried and failed in the third-rate boxing-halls. 
“But I got out of it,” he cried, and there was the fierce 
song of triumph in his voice. He told her too of the 
women he had met; those that had solaced him a 
while, those that had plunged him into despair. “Sure, 
I haven’t always been a saint,” he confessed. “But 
when you’ve never drunk anything except beer you 
don’t much worry about champagne.” He talked on, 
his untrained speech gaining dignity beneath the daring 
of his thoughts. “One day!” he said, and it was the 
voice of one who promised himself the stars. He stared 
at her again. 

“Any woman!” he echoed. “Miss Davidson, why 
don’t you stay?” 

Her smile died. He had made her conscious of 
her surroundings once more. 




90 


CHINESE RIVER 


“Stay? I don’t know,” she whispered. “It might 
not be too good for you, and—well, perhaps I’m not 
exactly what you think I am.” 

But suddenly she had banished the effect of that 
speech. 

“What on earth are we talking about?” she de¬ 
manded, and laughed lightly. “I think we’re both 
drunk. . . . Anyhow, I have to leave China. Two 
days! ” 

“Two days!” 

He tried to grin. “Sure, of course!” 

But he bit his lip. “God! It’s tough!” he breathed. 

And yet he could voice a strange, unexpected tri¬ 
umph. . . . 

“Still, you’d have done it, Miss Davidson. You’d 
have done it if you could have stayed, I mean. I know 
you would. I could see it in your eyes. . . .” 

Yes, he was drunk. But why need it weigh with 
her so much? Or anything? She forced herself to a 
smile. 

“I don’t know,” she answered. “Perhaps! . . . 
But I’ve got to get back to England. People are ex¬ 
pecting me—my father, my sister—well, you under¬ 
stand?” 

“Why not?” . . . Contritely, he was seeking to 
echo that sanity. . . . “Sure! And I’ll bet there’s 
some fine man waiting for you over there.” 

■ She hated that lie which answered him—he who 
had tortured himself with such honesty. But it might 
be kinder. 



91 


“freedom is a man!” 


“Er—yes! Yes, of course there is!” 

Which prompted his sage nodding. 

“Yes, Pll say there is! What’s his name?” 

Her pause j the desperate, voiceless striving; but, 
at last she had uttered it: 

“Macalister! Yes, Leith Macalister.” 

“Macalister, eh? Well that’s a fine name—just the 
sort of name you’d expect him to have. Sure, and I 
can see him. ... A thoroughbred, a hundred-per- 
cent-er! A real two-hooter like yourself.” 

And then, to wring her the more, he must raise his 
glass and echo that utterance. 

“Yes, I’ll say he is! Good luck to him, Miss David¬ 
son. Good luck to both of you. 

“And you don’t know what you’ve done,” he con¬ 
tinued thickly. “One of these days when I go to the 
club and see all about your wedding in one of them 
illustrated papers, I’ll be as proud as a king. ‘There’s 
the little girl, the lady, who nearly came and showed 
me ’ow to do things,’ I’ll say. ‘There’s the fine lady 
who-’ ” 

But suddenly her anguished cry broke in on that 
speech. 

“Stop! Stop, for God’s sake! You don’t know 
what you’re saying.” 

He obeyed her at last; grinning still, yet wondering 
at her pain. Then he nodded. 

“No, I don’t! Sorry!” he murmured. “Behaving 
like a pig . . . guess I’m drunk. Yes, I’ve been drink¬ 
ing all day . . . beginning to take effect on me. Sorry, 





92 


CHINESE RIVER 


Miss Davidson, but—well, you understand. That’s 
how I was thinking about you. I saw it in your eyes 
. . . a little sister to me . . . but you’re going away! 
Getting late! Come on, I’ll take you home.” 

They left the hotel, the curious stares of its patrons 
following them; they reached the street; a car drew 
up to the side-walk; he opened its door. 

“Yes, drunk . . . sorry! Take you home! Wash¬ 
erwoman’s son . . . behaving like a pig.” 

And then, fighting back her tears, she smiled at 
him, she touched his hand. 

“Does it really matter so very much to you?” she 
asked. “Well, all right! All right! Please don’t try 
to tell me any more ... I’m not going. Well, not 
yet! . . . Yes, to Tsingtao, I said . . . Tsingtao with 
you . . . no, he won’t object. Just a little while. . . .” 


VI 

Hinty’s Cabaret , or The Grand Alcazar Restaurant 
and Ballroom as it was somewhat vainly seeking to 
be called, was the latest and most ambitious addition 
to Tsingtao’s rapidly increasing night-life. Its ground 
floor was devoted to the restaurant, enhancing the 
German-style building’s air of solid respectability—a 
suggestion which was not belied; for the restaurant 
remained open all day; it closed soberly at midnight; 
a man might take his wife or daughter into it without 
fear of offence to them. But more of interest to Hinty 




93 


“freedom is a man!” 


and the growing number of his patrons were the build¬ 
ing’s other floors whose activities might be said to 
begin when conveniently those of the restaurant had 
ceased. 

On the first floor was the ballroom which provided 
the cabaret’s main attraction, a spacious, modernly 
ventilated place capable of accommodating forty couples. 
And precisely forty tables occupied the two sides of 
its length, a paid dance-hostess sitting at each. Usu¬ 
ally a dance-hostess was Russian, though with no greater 
knowledge of her country than the vague remem¬ 
brance of a childhood spent in Siberia; and, despite 
her elegant gowns, her speech was more often than 
not the speech of a peasant—noisy, friendly, demon¬ 
strative. But that inperfection hardly mattered; for 
to the cabaret’s Teuton patrons one Russian woman 
differed only from another in the matter of her looks 
or the bestowal of her favours. So little did it mat¬ 
ter indeed that to hint that one was the orphaned 
daughter of a murdered aristocrat might be both legiti¬ 
mate and lucrative. 

A man could dance with one of these girls by shar¬ 
ing her table and buying a bottle of champagne. The 
champagne was not necessarily expensive; to dance 
with her for half an hour one need only buy her an 
imitation of it, costing nine dollars and made from 
banana-juice. Of those nine dollars she earned two as 
commission. Nevertheless, to offer her the genuine 
beverage was an act of kindness. It would delay a 
little the chronic gastritis of early middle-age which 



94 


CHINESE RIVER 


was attributed to this cheaply manufactured substi¬ 
tute. Moreover, a third bottle of the real thing might 
give one the privilege of waiting for her when she 
went home to her lodgings at dawn. But if a man 
sought cheaper entertainment or was a little afraid of 
his respectability, he might bring his own dance-part¬ 
ner, for whose benefit there was the adjacent ante¬ 
room, more softly lit and more tenderly furnished with 
an occasional settee. While, for the man who could 
dispense with a woman’s company altogether, there 
was always the bar, or, on the floor above, the bridge 
room, the poker room; if he were drunk enough, a 
shower-bath to pull him round. 

So that Hinty’s (and no one seemed disposed to 
use its grander and more unwieldy name) became pop¬ 
ular and flourished. The many and local bachelors 
came there; the husbands whose wives were conven¬ 
iently away; the noisy shore-going parties from the 
foreign battleships; in season, the eager, inquisitive 
round-the-world tourists from the luxury liners. And 
if occasionally there was a bout of fisticuffs in the bar, 
or a mirror was smashed in the poker-room, Hinty 
did not object too strongly. 

“Sure! Sure! What’s a bit of high spirits between 
friends?” he would remark soothingly, and send the 
politely inquiring Chinese police away with a little 
reward for the stillness of their tongues. 

“Yes, the finest show in the Far East,” he boasted. 
“And, whatever a man wants, he can find it—even a 
glass of cold water.” 




95 


“freedom is a man!” 

But more privately he would sometimes shake his 
head and ponder a deep and human problem. 

“Cold water! Strange that no one in this life ever 
seems to want anything that’s free!” 

VII 

Up a short staircase, and beyond a locked door, 
was the spacious two-floored apartment which was 
Daniel Hinty’s own quarters. Jennie shared this with 
him, but, if at first she feared for her privacy, his 
bestowal of that menage between them had quickly 
reassured her. There was her own sitting-room, con¬ 
taining a miniature piano, a wireless cabinet with its 
dial set for the English broadcast from Hong Kong, 
a suspiciously new collection of books. Suspiciously 
new also was the key in its door. Moreover, one had 
to pass through this sanctum to get to her bedroom 
beyond it. And such a bedroom! “I feel like a midget 
in it,” she wrote to Dora Lenskaya. 

His servants came to her each morning, much like 
over-eager school-children endeavoring to present all 
their talents and virtues at once. They brought her 
tea, grape-fruit, cigarettes, the latest newspaper from 
Shanghai. They prepared her bath, ushered her go¬ 
ing to it, laid out her clothes—the clothes which de¬ 
spite her protests he had bought for her. So many 
servants did he seem to have that she itched to turn 
them out of the house, to say it to him: “This is vul¬ 
garity j the very vulgarity which you would discard.” 



96 


CHINESE RIVER 


Yet, in that self-same vulgarity might lie his ache 
to honour her, his dumb adoration. One might no 
more interfere with it than pluck out his heart. 

The days went by—strange days, unreal, dream¬ 
like, because they seemed so absolutely unrelated to 
anything that she had ever been, or thought, or craved. 
Yet, while she could be convinced that she was no 
longer herself, the self that had been or thought or 
craved otherwise, she was content. There was no 
hurt, no shock, no surprise, no regret. “Why am I 
here?” she might begin. “What is my purpose?” But 
the question died immediately with the springing of 
that other thought. . . . “England! What does it 
mean to me now? One place is no different from an¬ 
other if the heart is dead.”. . . And if her mood were 
less bitter, more hopeful, she might still employ that 
same indifference. . . . “Yes, happiness one day, if I 
don’t look for it too desperately. But what matters 
where I find it? Here! Anywhere!” 

Yes, it was like “marking time”, as a soldier would 
on a parade-ground; like waiting for a train and giving 
vast yet futile thought to a poster on a wall or the 
shape of someone’s hat; tense, detailed, crowded, spec¬ 
tacular with the mind’s acrobatics, yet meaningless and 
forgotten as soon as life and purpose moved on again. 

But at tiffin or dinner when he came in from his 
menfolk, or from seeing to the affairs of the cabaret 
or restaurant, the apartment and its luxury and its 
ridiculously sycophant menials would recede a little 
from her, giving her fresher breath. The sense of 




97 


“freedom is a man!” 

“marking time” would recede too. He would be there, 
fresh-cheeked, alert, opposite her at the table ; save for 
the “boy” who served them, alone with her. Dispel¬ 
ling the cloying, scented futility about her would be his 
needs . . . stark, real, animal; the urgent, hungry 
needs of the washerwoman’s son who would rid himself 
of the gutter. When he could look at her, demand of 
her, her presence there might not be so illogical. 

“Yes,” he had uttered for the second time, “I must 
be careful not to forget it today. . . . Not a serviette; 
a napkin y Jennie, a napkin. Great! Pm getting along 
like an ’ouse on fire—a house!” 

At which she smiled again, and knew purpose y living 
once more in that pity which had drawn her to him. 

“Like a whole block of houses,” she answered, and 
laughed and set him glowing contentedly with her 
well-rehearsed chatter. . . . How had his morning 
been spent? she wanted to know. Had he been to the 
club; had he beaten anyone at snooker? And even if 
sometimes she must reprove him for some unthinking 
trespass on her inward privacy, his contentment would 
remain unshaken. He would grin, draw back to gain 
a better look at her, grin once more. 

“Say it again, Jennie,” he would answer her. “Come 
on, say it! ... Angry with you? Good God, no! 
IPs just your opinion of me that I’m trying to worm 
out of you all the time. But, say it again. I like to 
hear your voice. There’s music in it. God! If ever 
I have a daughter, that’s just how she'll speak when 
she’s sore!” 




98 


CHINESE RIVER 


There came a day when he almost made her weep. 
“Look!” he exclaimed triumphantly. “Just bought 
a dictionary. Pm going to start with the A’s and learn 
each word by ’eart . . . heart! . . . well, all except 

adieu!” 


VIII 

She had recently sought to justify her position there 
by demanding that he gave her more work to do. 
Though he murmured of the existence of his shroff, 
she insisted on being allowed to help in the keeping 
of the cabaret’s accounts. The shroff, a Chinese youth 
who had entered Hinty’s employment under a heavy 
fidelity bond, was pardonably out of sympathy with 
this arrangement at first; though eventually she won 
him over. She presented him with that unfailing sop 
to outraged Oriental susceptibility, a gold wrist-watch 
which, in the presence of his Chinese inferiors, he 
consulted with irritating frequency. He, in return, 
began to teach her Mandarin Chinese. 

And when she had established herself with the shroff, 
she attacked Hinty’s business expenditure. His com- 
pradore, the native general-storekeeper who supplied 
the cabaret and restaurant with drinks and food, was 
cheating him, she discovered; he was being cheated 
also by the cook who went each morning to the Japa¬ 
nese market. The cook, in defence of his malpractices, 
would have quoted with righteous indignation that 
time-honoured Chinese custom whereby one taxed one’s 



99 


“freedom is a man!” 

purchases on behalf of another with a percentage of 
profit for one’s self. “Squeeze!” one described it, and 
deemed it legitimate. And though he might have to 
employ slightly more involved processes for proving 
that two fives made a dozen, the compradore would 
have been similarly outraged. She, in her Occidental 
simplicity, knew nothing of this, however. Proudly 
she confronted Hinty with an account of the money she 
was saving him; at which, having appropriately thanked 
her, he went secretly and consoled the cook with an 
increase of salary, and presented the compradore with 
a new silk jacket, also an illuminated scroll testifying 
not only to that gentleman’s integrity and honour but to 
the integrity and honour of his ancestors. 

Often she interested herself in the work of the 
cabaret. If, as occasionally happened, the dance-room 
were not too well frequented she would sit with one 
or other of its girls in the attempt to relieve their bore¬ 
dom. They liked her, though they had been shy and 
suspicious of her at first. Mischievously they gave her 
the latest gossip concerning Tsingtao’s errant menfolk, 
laughing if they could make her blush. Often too she 
ventured into the bar or the card-rooms. Which orig¬ 
inally had evoked Hinty’s surprised gratitude. . . . 
“Fine, fine! You’re drawing ’em like free champagne. 
And you remember old Carson, the man who made 
you drink with him last night? Well, he’s asked me 
to play golf. Old Carson! Biggest man in Tsing- 
tao.”. . . But, later, observing her increasing popu¬ 
larity, he diluted his enthusiasm. , . . “No, don’t 




100 


CHINESE RIVER 


come in tonight!” he might say. “The navy boys 
will be in. They may be a bit too cheery!” ... or 
. . . “Yes, Pm going with old Carson to the races 
tomorrow—his own party—and he wants you to come 
as well. But don’t let him get too fresh. Next time 
he forgets to finish shaking hands with you, tread on 
one of his corns.” 

But, despite those self-sought tasks, there was lit¬ 
tle for her to do, so that during the long summer 
day when the cabaret was closed she must either ac¬ 
cept Hinty’s company or amuse herself as best she 
could. Sometimes she would invite some of the cab¬ 
aret’s girls to go with her to the Star cinema, extract¬ 
ing keen delight from paraphrasing the more diffi¬ 
cult English dialogue for them; or, hiring rickshaws, 
they would ride out past the derelict German forts 
to one of the less frequented beaches. In that warm, 
placid sea, one might spend a whole afternoon without 
the slightest hint of chill; and it was the Russian girl$ 
who, following the practice of their native country, 
had taught her the exhilaration of swimming without 
a costume. 

If Hinty claimed her spare time, she did not refuse 
him. She might still be puzzled at herself; she might 
still ask was she dreaming; she might still challenge 
the purpose of it all; but he was decent, generous, 
tender, she reminded herself and, however ridicu¬ 
lous that relationship might be, she must teach her¬ 
self to honour it. She must teach herself to respond 
to his invitations more readily; to enthuse where per- 



101 


“freedom is a man!” 

haps no enthusiasm might be found j to laugh, even 
if it was more appropriate to wince—or weep! 

Yet, with all his ludicrous strivings for that gen¬ 
tility which must never elude him, her presence was 
not without effect upon him. There was a growing 
dignity about the man, even though it might only be the 
dignity of increased susceptibility, or increased capa¬ 
bility for suffering. Even when inevitably he came to 
confessing his love for her, there was dignity about 
him. One could not feel resentment j only an im¬ 
mense pity j a grain of admiration, too. . . . “Sure, 
I guess Pm jealous of old Carson, jealous of any 
man who comes near you. But don’t be worried, Jen¬ 
nie. Pll never let it frighten you away.” 

When they went out together, it seemed that de¬ 
liberately he left the affairs of the cabaret behind him. 
He rarely referred to it. He was still vulgarly proud 
of its success j yet, as soon as he was away from it, an¬ 
other and rarer mood in him could seem to despise it. 

If he had only an hour or two to spend with her, 
he would usually take her out to the Strand Beach to 
swim. But he did not join her in the water. She had 
heard from one of the cabaret girls that during the 
War he was wounded in the thigh. Perhaps this was 
the explanation. Looking somewhat out of place in 
his correct suit of white linen, he squatted in the sand, 
content to guard her hand-bag and towel until she 
returned to him. Gravely then he would watch her 
while she took off her bathing-cap and combed her 
hair. Yet, strangely, though his gaze seemed to be 




102 


CHINESE RIVER 


familiar with every line of her lithe young body, it 
could never offend. One sensed only its adoration; its 
reverence almost. “But I must make him laugh more,” 
she would warn herself then. 

Lately, however, their excursions together had been 
longer. Putting a luncheon-basket in the car, he often 
took her out for the whole day. Leaving the neat, 
ordered town behind, he would seek the hills, negotiat¬ 
ing the sharp hairpin bends of the road until twenty 
miles distant they reached the mountains. Sometimes, 
on the way, he would halt unexpectedly, and then she 
might encounter the poet in the man. She would find 
herself beholding some new and striking aspect of the 
distant, jagged coast-line far below. Or they were at 
some bridge whose stream beneath went tumbling to 
a pool; the trees mirrored there, the ducks swimming. 

But always, in an absurd excess of modesty, would 
he wait until she herself had exclaimed on that beauty. 
Then, and only then, it seemed, did he permit him¬ 
self to grin and see merit in his own judgment too. 

One day, however, his restraint about themselves 
was unexpectedly broken; not embarrassingly so, but 
strangely, obliquely. He made no actual reference to 
their relationship; only, in a queer, abstract way did 
he hint at it. But it could haunt the memory—and 
wring it perhaps—and long after any blunt, direct 
appeal to her would have been forgotten. 

They had motored to the wild, mountain grandeur 
of Laushan, where now they were taking their picnic 

i 

lunch in the vicinity of a temple. She broke his silence. 




“freedom is a man!” 


103 


“That temple seems to fascinate you,” she ex¬ 
claimed. 

“Sure, it’s good to look at,” he answered. “I’ve been 
trying to see the minds of the chaps who built it. They 
certainly seemed to know what they were aiming at. 
Yet, if you take a real look at it, all you can see is a 
few walls, a bit of colour, some steps, and a roof.” 

“Simplicity . . . which is the true art,” she re¬ 
minded him, yet trying not to sound too much like a 
school-mistress. 

He laughed. 

“Well, there’s no use trying to talk to me about art,” 
he retorted. “But, if Danny Hinty had been told to 
build it, he’d have wanted just about a hundred times 
that amount of material, and ended up by making it 
look like one of those cardboard palaces in an amuse¬ 
ment-park. 

“But, simplicity /” he echoed, and fell musingly si¬ 
lent again. 

He looked up at last and smiled. 

“Perhaps one day I’ll sell that cabaret, and start 
afresh,” he exclaimed. 

The seeming irrelevance of that remark puzzled 
her, but she made no comment on it. 

“What would you do?” she asked, at which he 
frowned. 

“I don’t know,” he answered. “But it might be some 
sort of life where money came a little less easily . . . 
where it didn’t get into your blood so much. And that’s 
the low-down on it, I guess. When it’s too easy, 





104 


CHINESE RIVER 


money’s a drug—a dirty drug, like a run of luck at 
cards. And when you’re buried in the card-room, you 
forget the fresh air outside, the things you planned 
to do; you can’t even see day break. And you can’t 
see people any more; you can’t even see yourself. . . . 
Supposing I chucked it all away?” 

She was still puzzled, but . . . “What then?” she 
asked. 

He shrugged his shoulders. 

“Well, simplicity y you said,” he retorted. “Sim¬ 
plicity that gets you somewhere! I’ve seen a man 
earning a few pounds a week, and being proud of him¬ 
self. I’ve seen him living every penny of it; laughing 
at me because I was sorry for him. . . . And me? 
Well, I guess I’m beginning to realize why no one’s 
ever likely to call me a gentleman. Like a fool, I’ve 
been trying to buy gentility. My God, I’m bigger trash 
now than when I used to sell race-cards with a muffler 
round my neck.” 

“Don’t!” she pleaded, but he laughed. 

“I’m not going to!” he answered her. “I’m not 
even going to be sorry for myself. I’m glad! Jen¬ 
nie, I think I’ve found the secret of things . . . yes, 
like those comic old johnnies who built that temple.” 

He took her hand. “Jennie, look at me!” he de¬ 
manded; and then that perplexing jumble of speech 
and idea betrayed sudden relevance to her, so that she 
must tremble and pale at the import of it all. . . . 

“Jennie, I’ll sell out . . . start afresh . . . look 
for things in the proper way . . . the way you’d have 
me. Jennie, look at me.” 



105 


“freedom is a man!” 

“I’m looking,” she said and smiled at him. “Fine!” 
she ached to say, but could she surrender herself so 
utterly to that crazy idolatry within him? It must 
be fought surely—thrown down and shattered like 
one of the temple’s senseless gods of paint and wood 
—not only for her sake . . . his! 

“Yes, I must leave him!” came now her desperate 
thought. “Quickly, before I break him.” 

And yet there might be other ways, more subtle, 
more kind to him. She heard newly her noisy laugh; 
the jaunty hypocrisy following it. 

“Well, I can’t say I’m enamoured of your cabaret, 
Master Hinty. But, while men are the foolish little 
schoolboys they are, they’ll always waste their time 
and money somewhere and somehow, I imagine. 

“But, look here!” she added, and now came those 
words by which she might bring him at last to his 
senses about her. “For heaven’s sake don’t imagine 
that my opinions matter so much. I’m not the fine, 
high-souled creature you think I am. I’m not even a 
lady. Before I came here I was just a little backstreet 
nobody, working for my living . . . tapping a type¬ 
writer ; answering a telephone . . . going home each 
night to mend my stockings . . . listen to a father 
who’d sell his soul for a half bottle of whisky. 

“And you’d better know some more,” she con¬ 
tinued with a wry little grin at him. “When you met 
me I was going home at the public expense—yes, the 
consul was repatriating me—and I was living in a tene¬ 
ment-house, out where they forget to empty the gar¬ 
bage-can^ And a little Russian seamstress used to over- 





106 


CHINESE RIVER 


pay me for sewing dresses for her . . . money she 
needed herself, probably . . . and wasn’t I glad to be 
taking it? Oh, and I could tell you plenty—enough 
to make your hair stand on end. 

“Anyhow,” she concluded, “where’s your precious, 
aristocratic Jennie Davidson now?” 

He laughed. 

“Sure, Jennie, when you and I get excited we cer¬ 
tainly know how to talk,” he commented. “But, an 
aristocrat! You’d be an aristocrat, walking round in 
a potato-sack . . . Still, this seamstress girl! She 
sounds good to me. Tell me more about her. God, 
and it must be hot in Shanghai now! Why don’t you 
ask her up for a holiday? And send her some bucks 
from the petty cash for her fare. . . . No, don’t send 
it; you might hurt her feelings. Damned proud, some 
of these Russian women. We’ll think up something 
smarter. But get her here—get her here!” 

Yes, she had failed to defeat him—absolutely. But 
she could not be miserable because of it. For the 
first time in many days she used his Christian name. 

“I’ll write to her,” she said, and smiled straight 
into his eyes. “Yes . . . thanks, Dannie! You’re a 
thoroughbred!” 


IX 

Dora Lenskaya accepted that invitation. Moreover, 
because Jennie had carefully hidden any suggestion of 
Hinty’s charity from it, she accepted it immediately, 



107 


“freedom is a man!” 

boldly. . . . “Please to find a room for me in not 
a too dear house where I pay my own bill,” she wrote 
to Jennie. When, however, she found herself installed 
in Hinty’s own apartment, she did not object too 
strongly. Having now met Jennie’s employer and 
given her tentative approval of him, she was prepared 
graciously to accept some little of his bounty. 

As the days passed and she began to detect Jennie’s 
unhappiness about him, she was puzzled. Particularly 
did she fail to understand why Jennie could some¬ 
times plan to leave him. 

“Why do you want to run away like foolish girl and 
starve?” she protested. “True, he is good man and 
give you good money. But what you give him? Tshortl 
You are like mother, father, sister, language teacher— 
all in one. You could give no more if you were princ¬ 
ess.” 

“Perhaps, perhaps,” Jennie agreed, yet as quickly 
did she retract that utterance. 

“No, Dora! He sees something more in me than 
that. He sees dignity, truth—loveliness, perhaps. I’m 
an ideal he’s set up for himself; something to worship 
like—like a religion. I’m perfect, faultless, just like 
our dear, virginal grandmothers were supposed to be; 
something that couldn’t possibly go wrong. And it’s 
growing on him, more and more each day. 

“Gosh, can’t you see, Dora?” came then her fierce 
anguish. “I’ve got to tell him—not half a story; the 
whole story. . . . Leith! My baby! Everything!” 

Dora, her starveling imagination reacting in pardon- 





108 


CHINESE RIVER 


able unscrupulousness to the luxury of Jennie’s bed 
room, shrugged her shoulders scornfully. 

“Why?” she asked. “What story shall Mister Hinty 
tell you of himself? Do you think he sit all the time 
in sky with angels?” 

“But he loves me, Dora. I’ve got to tell him. And 
then? . . . Well, what happens to him?” 

“So!” . . . Dora stared at her for a moment . . . 
“So, you love him, too! Tak! Then, perhaps you 
marry him.” 

Jennie shook her head, yet she could not smile at 
that speech. 

“I don’t love him,” she answered. “Definitely, I 
don’t. But perhaps there are things even more im¬ 
portant than loving a man—things more worthy, more 
useful to him perhaps. Love needn’t always be sacrifice 
or service. It needn’t always be noble. It can be cruel, 
greedy, destroying. . . . But when you only pity a 
man, your mind is clearer. You’re not trying to burn 
yourself up because he’s forgotten to kiss you, for in¬ 
stance. You feel the finer things, the more sensible 
things. You feel like a mother about him; you feel 
the milk in your breasts. Yes, one keeps a lover wait¬ 
ing sometimes, to stop and help a homeless dog.” 

From those mysterious, alien fastnesses of her Sla¬ 
vonic soul, Dora Lenskaya considered that speech. She 
looked back; back through the strange, chaotic years 
that had been her own. 

“ Moi y mot!” she grieved, almost in soliloquy. “How 
Woman must always talk of this life! Never can she 



109 


“freedom is a man!” 

live it like bird. Never can she forget to think of it.” 

But the ornate challenge of that room restored her. 
She frowned at her hands, reminded of their need of a 
manicure. 

“Poof! He is rich,” she retorted. “And perhaps 
soon he is different. A man grow tired to look at 
woman all the time like priest. Soon he remember 
how many dresses he give you.” 

Jennie smiled; musingly she smiled. She shook 
her head again. 

“No, I don’t think so,” she answered; and, think¬ 
ing of him thus, her voice could take on a strange ring 
of pride. She could almost forget that gnawing self- 
reproach and be happy. 

But one day the Russian girl’s practicality disturbed 
her strangely. 

“Sure! Sure! He looks at you like goddess now,” 
Dora was exclaiming. “But wait! Perhaps very soon 
Nadya Skolnikova come back to Tsingtao.” 

“Nadya Skolnikova?” Jennie echoed questioningly, 
yet the name seemed vaguely familiar. 

Dora nodded. 

“Yes. Perhaps you don’t hear from girls here. But 
Nadya, just before you come, is sick—appendicitis. 
She go to hospital in Shanghai because her sister can 
come to see her, and better doctor is there.” 

And then Jennie remembered. 

“Yes, Pve heard of her. He used to call and see her 
at the hospital. He told me of her, in fact. . . . Al¬ 
most as soon as we met,” she added loyally. 






110 


CHINESE RIVER 


“But how did you know of this?” she demanded 
suddenly. At which, observing Jennie’s obvious inter¬ 
est in the subject, Dora was well content. 

“Many girls tell me,” she answered slowly. “Mis¬ 
ter Hinty’s girls, here in cabaret. Yes, when Russian 
women meet we talk much . . . Nadya was here a 
long time, they say. She do not work, she play, she 
make fool of him. He give her all she ask. She is 
number-one girl here. She can pull his nose if she 
like. . . . And now she leave hospital; she finish hol¬ 
iday—how do you say—convalescence. If she don’t 
find rich fool in Shanghai, she come back here to pull 
his nose once more.” 

Dora paused. Perhaps she was over-elaborating that 
topic, she reproached herself honestly. 

“ Tak! I talk too much,” she exclaimed. “Yes, he 
is good man. He make a present of his shirt, as Eng¬ 
lish people do say. . . . But do not run away because 
you think you break his heart. You stay. You put 
your money in bank. Man is like cat. Have many 
hearts.” 


X 

It was Hinty himself who next discussed Nadya 
Skolnikova with her; just over a week later when, still 
acknowledging a grudging admiration for him, Dora 
the seamstress had returned to Shanghai. 

- “Jennie,” he began, “there’s a new girl coming to 
the cabaret next week; to be more exact, a girl who 




Ill 


“freedom is a man! 55 


was here before. Put her on the pay-roll . . . Nadya 
Skolnikova . 55 

She would not betray her recognition of that name. 
She nodded casually. 

“A dance-partner, of course ? 55 

“Yes . 55 

But he frowned. 

“I ought to tell you , 55 he continued. “She’s the 
girl who—well, in a way, Jennie, she brought us 
together. I was taking some flowers to her the day 
I saw you at that hospital. I didn’t think she was 
coming back to cabaret work. In fact, I was rather 
hoping she wouldn’t. I imagined that, being in Shang¬ 
hai, she might look for something better. Still, there 
it is! I promised to keep her job open for her. She’s 
written to say she’s coming. I guess I can’t go back on 
her.” 

She smiled. 

“Good heavens, no!” she commented. “And now 
that you mention it, I remember the name. ... I 
overheard the girls talking about her. She’s pretty 
they say, and apparently she was popular here.” 

Slowly a flush came to his cheeks. 

“I see,” he murmured, and stared at her for a mo¬ 
ment. “You’ve heard quite a lot, it seems j too much, 
perhaps. Well, I guess I ought to tell you a little 
more. 

“But, see here!” he added suddenly and challeng- 
ingly. “If you don’t get me straight about this girl, 
she isn’t coming here.” 





112 


CHINESE RIVER 


“Dannie,” she answered composedly, and that mo¬ 
ment could offer exhilaratingly the first emotion of 
freedom that she had known in long weeks, “you don’t 
have to explain or apologize for anything you do either 
in your business or outside it. The cabaret is yours, 
your private life is yours. As for me—well, I imagine 
Pm like this girl who’s coming here; merely someone 
on your pay-roll; someone who’s as free to walk out 
of here as she’ll be.” 

He winced, and then she knew his anger. 

“Damn these gossiping women! I might have known 
it. Anyhow, that settles it, Jennie. I was a fool to 
think of it. She’s not coming. Pll send her a wire— 
and now!” 

He left her, striding quickly from the room without 
looking back at her. It was the first time he had ever 
dared to show resentment against her. It could sur¬ 
prise her, sober her. “Perhaps I’m thinking and talk¬ 
ing like a catty fool,” she reasoned. Presently she went 
in search of him, finding him on a floor below the 
apartment in the tiny room which he used as his office. 
He was clumsily putting a sheet of note-paper into an 
ancient typewriter. 

“Have you sent that wire?” she asked, at which he 
frowned at her again. 

“No, I haven’t,” he answered brusquely. “But I’m 
going to. Still, I ought to send her some sort of let¬ 
ter as well. I’m doing it now. 

“And I guess you’re right,” he added. “You and 



113 


“freedom is a man!” 

Nadya wouldn’t mix. Pm a fool.”. . . But his re¬ 
sentment remained. 

She put a hand on his shoulder. 

“Why?” she retorted gently. “But don’t send that 
letter. Don’t wire her. Dannie, look at me. Let me 
see you smile. If I’ve sounded like an ungrateful lit¬ 
tle prig, forgive me. . . . But there’s something on 
your mind about that girl. And we’re pals, I think. 
Why not tell me?” 

He looked up suddenly. 

“Pals!” he echoed, and his smile could echo it again. 
“Yes, I’d been hoping it was that way between us, Jen¬ 
nie. . . . And that was why this girl didn’t matter, 
I’d thought. 

“Yes, nothing matters any more, Jennie, if we’re pals 
and you believe in me,” he continued; and his gaze 
was calm, proud. It left her marvelling at him a little. 

“Still,” he added, a shade less assuredly, “I’d bet¬ 
ter tell you. She was my ‘number-one’ girl here. Sure, 
she’s got her faults, plenty of ’em, but I’m not un¬ 
grateful. She helped me to work up this business. She 
could talk, she could handle the men . . . keep them 
interested in the show, yet put ’em under her thumb 
if they tried to make too rough a house of it. Yes, and 
unlike the other girls, she’s local born . . . born in 
Shanghai . . . smart, well-educated. French, Eng¬ 
lish, Russian! They’re all the same to her. Yes, if 
she wanted to—if she were only a little less lazy—she 
could be a rich woman, I guess.” 







114 


CHINESE RIVER 


Well, he had not criticized Nadya so strongly as Dora 
Lenskaya had done. She could like him for it. But 
she could not resist that slightly provocative com¬ 
ment. 

“Nadya Skolnikova is my predecessor, in short.” 

He frowned, he flushed again, but he would not 
quarrel with that utterance. 

“In a way, yes!” 

“And there was something more to you than that! 
She belonged to you!” 

He hesitated only for a second. 

“Yes, she belonged to me,” he said. 

Then restrainedly he was pleading with her. 

“That was yesterday, Jennie! And I think I’ve 
said it before. If you’ve never drunk champagne, you’re 
content with beer. I couldn’t see that far in front of 
me. . . And though it’s probably beside the point, 
don’t get too grand an idea about the way she belonged 
to me. The first woman to make a home in this flat is 
yourself. If you don’t believe it, I’m sorry.” 

“I do believe it,” she assured him, yet he had sur¬ 
prised her again. 

But now that unspoken question was being answered 
for her; by Hinty himself. 

“You’ll probably call me a darned hypocrite, Jennie, 
but a man may still have dreams, even though you 
wouldn’t touch him with a barge-pole. ... Yes, in 
my comic sort of way I was still trying to keep a bar¬ 
gain with myself. I’d save this home, such as it is, 
for a-” 




115 


“freedom is a man!” 


“For a wife!” he almost said, but he checked him¬ 
self. He smiled at her again triumphantly, challeng- 
ingly almost. 

“Well, I think Pve proved it, Jennie. The woman 
I want under my roof is the woman I can respect . . . 
a wife, a sister. Or if it can’t be that, then, let it be 
even a little more difficult ... a pal . . . someone 
who respects me also.” 

She stared at him, marvelling again. She had not 
previously been conscious of it, but how strangely, how 
unexpectedly was this man climbing to that stature 
which he had demanded for himself. Yes, it was al¬ 
most humiliating to her that she had not seen it be¬ 
fore ; for now she could recall not one, but a hundred 
subtle trivialities that had combined to bring about that 
change in him. There was a different look in his eyes, 
a firmer ring to his voice. No longer did he seem so 
miserably haunted by his own inferiority, so pathetically 
apologetic for it. His exterior seemed different; the 
way he walked, and bore himself; the movement of his 
hands. And, though that undistinguished London ac¬ 
cent might always brand him as a man of the people, 
his speech was different; it was losing the meaning¬ 
less parrot-phrases of the gutter, the hackneyed hu¬ 
mour of it; he would utter thoughts as he might ex¬ 
press them in a letter. . . . “Yes, he has dignity,” 
was her thought. “Strength, perhaps. If he were ever 
angry with me now, I believe I could be afraid of 
him.” 

Yet it was his doing, not hers; his triumph. Such 




116 


CHINESE RIVER 


change might only spring from the man himself; his 
own dreams, his own urgings. ... A whip to his 
flesh, yet a whip that he grasped in his own hand. 

But now he was addressing her, and with that same 
astonishing calm on him. 

“Well, Jennie, what do we do about this girl? Do 
we have her back or do I write this letter? Pm not 
forgetting I promised to take her back, but she can’t 
complain if I get her a better job elsewhere.” 

She was almost too distracted to answer. 

“Do what you like!” she exclaimed. “And, Dan¬ 
nie, I ought never to have questioned it. It—well, it 
depends surely only on how you feel about her; whether 
she’d make you happy or not.” 

“Happy?” He gave that word his half incredulous 
echo. “You’re not thinking she’s going to mean any¬ 
thing to me again. No, that was finished . . . finished 
entirely . . . the day I met you. She means nothing 
to me, nothing absolutely.” 

He got to his feet; with that strange inward smile 
upon him, he went to the window, gazing down the 
long tree-lined avenue to where was the shimmering 
sea. 

“Well, I still leave it to you,” he continued. “If you 
don’t want her here, there are plenty of other jobs 
we can find for her. But somehow I hope you’ll let 
her come.” 

“Your promise to her, you mean?” 

He laughed. His presence seemed to fill the entire 
room; she felt dwarfed, microscopic. 



117 


“freedom is a man!” 

“No!” he said. “She’d merely help me to test my¬ 
self ... be a little more sure of something. I love 
you! 

“Aye, but don’t let it worry you,” he added swiftly. 
“Not yet . . . not yet!” 

She could not answer him. She could only wonder 
why she wanted to weep. Presently, when his back 
was turned for a moment, she took that sheet of paper 
from the typewriter and crumpled it. 

“Where did you buy that new tie?” she asked. “I 
like it!” 


XI 

Nadya Skolnikova was now at Hinty's. 

That was her laugh which haunted the cabaret at 
nights. One could not easily mistake Nadya’s laugh, 
nor forget it. A rare laugh—dancing, buoyant, provo¬ 
cative ; like the light, upward impulse of newly poured 
champagne, with Nadya herself lifting it to her lips. 
It emboldened or mocked one, seduced or irritated; 
according to one’s mood, the lateness of the hour, or 
how one stood in Nadya’s own affections. 

And like her laugh was Nadya herself—quick, spon¬ 
taneous, effervescent, nervously keyed even to the point 
of brittleness. Brittleness was in the movement of her 
hands, the staccato of her heels, even in the quality of 
her hair—bleached, sapped, metallic. 

But they were glad that Nadya was back. Hinty’s 
was prospering, even more heartily than before. Said 






118 


CHINESE RIVER 


the girls among themselves: Sure, sure! English Jen¬ 
nie was good . . . lovely . . . her soul like a white 
chrysanthemum. Yet too much loveliness saddened 
one, stirred the memory too bitterly, tortured it like the 
naive ringing of church bells on a half-forgotten sab¬ 
bath. Yes, a white chrysanthemum! But life was short. 
Sure, perhaps this night, Nadya would get drunk again 
and dance the “cancan.” And said the men: Quite! 
Quite! Any man might boast of a pure five-minutes 
occasionally; like mourning someone dead or writing 
to his mother. But it was good to be one’s self again. 
And Hinty was right. When did the English girl pack 
her bags? 

There was little need for Jennie to frequent the 
cabaret now. In any event, Hinty had never been en¬ 
tirely in favour of it. Moreover, as Jennie had im¬ 
pressed on him, if Nadya returned, it should be to her 
former position of responsibility as the cabaret’s “num¬ 
ber-one” girl. Only thus could they hope to spare her 
feelings. Hinty had gratefully agreed with this j so 
that Nadya was now to be encountered in his apart¬ 
ment often, and Jennie saw much of her. Yet a different 
Nadya seemingly; one who, far from being the time- 
wasting drone whom Dora Lenskaya had described, 
could offer Hinty some of his own fine enthusiasm. 
Almost every day she would be seeking his opinion or 
approval of something; planning fresh entertainment 
for his patrons; stressing always the importance of 
things that were new, original, unexpected. . . . Was 
she indifferent to Jennie’s presence? Hinty did not 



119 


“freedom is a man!” 

know. But, listening to Nadya, he would draw back 
from her, scratch his head, grin. . . . “Look here!” 
he would protest again. “What exactly did they do to 
you in that hospital? Never known you so energetic!” 

“Yes, she’s a great little sport!” he commented to 
Jennie. “I didn’t think she’d take it half so well.” 

With which Jennie had to agree. 

“I like her,” she said. “She’s amusing. Invite her 
up to dinner.” 

But it was strange. Nadya Skolnikova had never 
yet accepted that invitation. 

XII 

There came a day when the two girls had their first 
quarrel. 

It was after dinner one evening, and a telephone call 
had come to the apartment for Hinty from old Carson. 
Hinty was not to be found, but “I’ll look for him,” 
Jennie assured old Carson. Not thinking to trouble 
the servants, she descended to the cabaret, where, fol¬ 
lowing their usual practice of arriving somewhat earlier 
than the rest of the staff, Nadya and the leader of the 
orchestra were already in the ballroom, discussing the 
coming night’s programme. Hinty was not there, nor 
had they seen him, but, knowing Hinty’s flattered in¬ 
terest in old Carson, Jennie was anxious that he should 
be found. Seeing the cabaret’s head-boy standing near, 
she ordered him to look for his master. “Perhaps he’s 
in the restaurant,” she suggested. 






120 


CHINESE RIVER 


At that moment Hinty appeared from the restaurant, 
and, overhearing Jennie’s message for him, went with 
schoolboyish haste to speak to old Carson. But, as Jen¬ 
nie moved to follow him, Nadya Skolnikova softly 
detained her. 

“Just a moment, sister!” she murmured, and for the 
first time one saw her frown. “That head-boy belongs 
here—this cabaret! If you want anyone to run messages 
for you, why not use your own servants? Surely you’ve 
plenty enough.” 

The orchestra leader, sensitively masculine, moved 
away. He liked Jennie, but he liked Nadya, his country¬ 
woman, alsoj and a man was better apart from such 
profitless situations. The two women faced each other, 
alone in the centre of the empty dance-floor. 

“It had never occurred to me like that,” Jennie was 
answering. “Still, I suppose you’re right. I’m sorry!” 

Yet she lingered. Dusk heightened the pallor of her 
face. “I think we ought to talk about something,” she 
whispered. 

Nadya laughed—that nervous, brittle laugh which 
could irritate as intensely as it charmed. 

“Why?” she retorted; and then, challengingly, she 
corrected herself. 

“Why not? But I’m not a thought-reader. What 
is it?” 

Jennie hesitated. 

“I’d been hoping we could be friends, Nadya,” she 
answered. “Perhaps we are, but I somehow fancy that 
if we’re not it’s my fault rather than yours.” 





121 


“freedom is a man!” 

That speech was subtly flattering to the Russian girl. 
She pondered it for a moment. But that opportunity 
of pitting her strength against Jennie was something 
that she had sought deliberately. It was not to be 
wasted. 

“Your fault? I fail to see it,” she commented art¬ 
lessly. “In any event, as far as Pm concerned, friend¬ 
ship doesn’t enter into it. It’s just a matter of business. 
All I ask is this. ... You keep to your side of Hinty’s, 
and I’ll keep to mine.” 

“Do I understand you?” 

Jennie was still endeavouring to smile; but . . . 

“I guess you do,” the other retorted coldly. “Your 
half is Hinty’s apartment; mine is his cabaret. 

“But don’t get me wrong,” she added with a mo¬ 
mentarily disarming grin. “I’m merely talking about 
the business side of things, in the same way as you’d 
be sending me out on my ear if I muscled in on that 
menage upstairs. Yes, just a matter of internal politics, 
Miss Davidson. No offence given; no offence expected. 
If you care to come to the cabaret like any other woman, 
you’ll be very welcome. 

“Sure, and the cabaret needs girls,” she continued. 
But now her grin had died. Mockingly she asked. 
“Yes, why not take a table?” 

Jennie winced, yet she hesitated once more. Even 
now she could try to persuade herself that she need 
not be angry. Bitter as it seemed, there was a certain 
rough justice in Nadya’s remarks, she recognized. 

She laughed. 



122 


CHINESE RIVER 


“Well, if it would help the cabaret, I would!” she 
answered. “Heaven knows I do little enough in the 
way of actual work here.” 

“Fine!” exclaimed Nadya. “I’ll fix a table for you 
tonight. There’s a girl sick. I need one badly.” 

But suddenly and grimly she faced Jennie. 

“Sister, that is something you won’t do,” she almost 
raved. “If you can get away with that purity campaign 
of yours upstairs, you certainly won’t do it down here.” 

Jennie tried to laugh again, but now the effort had 
failed her utterly. 

“I see!” she exclaimed, and could only just restrain 
herself from slapping the other girl’s face. 

“I see!” she uttered again. “Well, now let’s have 
it. We’re talking about Hinty. . . . Hinty, I said. 
Talk on!” 

“Hinty!” . . . Echoing that name, Nadya’s voice 
was newly tremulous, pathetic almost. . . . “I’m not 
interested in Hinty,” she flung back desperately. 
“Hinty’s just a poor sap, worried about the next aitch 
he’s going to drop. I’ll be interested in Hinty when 
I haven’t a tooth in my head.” 

But now she abandoned that pretence. Her voice 
was coming in thick, sobbing urgency. 

“Yes, perhaps I am interested in Hinty! I knew 
him when he was fine ... a man . . . when the good 
red blood was in him . . . before you’d made a sucker 
out of him. And he’s a sucker every time he falls for 
that ‘big white sister’ stuff of yours; every time he 
apologizes for being as God made him; every time 



123 


“freedom is a man!” 


he thinks he’s going to sell out and make a gentleman 
of himself. . . .” 

“He told you that?” 

“Yes, he told me! He’s told me plenty, so that I’ve 
been sick with listening to it all . . . so that I’ve itched 
to snatch that parson’s collar off him ... to make him 
drunk again. And when he’s sold out, and you’ve made 
a little white-faced Lord Squirt of him, what’s he going 
to do? Play a harp, I guess . . . start a racket, wind¬ 
ing wool for dames. Yes, that’s why I’m interested in 
Hinty.” 

Yet that passionate honesty was exhausting herself. 
Wiping her tears from her cheeks, Nadya Skolnikova 
was laughing again—the careless, metallic laugh that 
would sustain her against all hurt, all memory. 

“Huh! I could get him back from you any time 
I liked,” she uttered calmly. “Any time I cared to 
show him my knee. 

“But I wouldn’t have it on my conscience I’d lost 
you a job,” she continued. Grinning once more, she 
began to walk away. “Jobs like yours are hard to keep, 
especially when a girlie’s stock-in-trade is only the 
water-wagon. But there’s plenty of time, sister. Mr. 
Hinty will recover. The ‘temporary insanity’ will pass 
—the woollen panties era with it! We’ll get back to 
silks . . . soft music-” 

“What’s this about woollen—er—underclothing?” 
It was Hinty’s voice as his thickset form loomed unex¬ 
pectedly in the door-way. At which Nadya Skolnikova 
chimingly answered him. 






124 


CHINESE RIVER 


“Miss Davidson was telling me she wears woollen 
panties. Perhaps you didn’t know. But run along. Pm 
trying to convert her to silks. 

“Oh, but I beg her pardon,” she added. “Perhaps, 
occasionally, she’s worn a bit of silk like the rest of 
us! Yes, Pm sure she has.” 

Hinty stared at them for a moment, trying vainly 
to search their faces in the gloom of the unlighted 
room. Yet, having heard nothing of their earlier con¬ 
versation, he was eventually able to reassure himself. 
He laughed. 

“Yes, perhaps I ought to run along,” he agreed with 
heavy waggishness. “Sounds hardly respectable.” 

He disappeared, going down to the restaurant again. 

Nadya stared after him for a moment; hungrily it 
seemed. Then she shrugged her shoulders. 

“Well, I have a job to do,” she declared dully. “And 
if Pve made you weep, Pm sorry. It’s the rotten way 
Pm made. And don’t let anything I said about the 
cabaret keep you away from it. Come down and split 
a bottle with me sometimes. Yes, come tonight. We’ll 
both get drunk. . . . But, Christ! Don’t we all weep! ” 

Swiftly then she fled. 

Jennie went back to her sitting-room, where, hear¬ 
ing her return, the amah had switched on the radio for 
her. It gushed a noisy glare of orchestral music from 
Hong Kong. She silenced it. She sat down by the open 
window, fanning herself against the oppressive August 
heat. 



125 


“freedom is a man!” 

“Every time he apologizes for being as God made 
him,” Nadya had flung at her. 

The spurious logic of it was stabbing at her like 
knife-thrusts. 

“A little white-faced Lord Squirt . . . playing a 
harp . . . winding wool for dames.” 

And yet again. ... “I could get him back from 
you any time I liked, any time I cared to show him my 
knee.” 

Nadya! Herself! Which of them might help 
him? . . . Neither, perhaps! 

Her thoughts toiled on, like weary, leaderless 
marchers in a fog-bound waste. . . . Poor Nadya! 
Who once had flouted him, laughed at him, boasted 
openly of her infidelities against him; yet, returning 
and finding him lost to her, could cling to that tortur¬ 
ing scene, like a drowning wretch at a straw. Yes, one 
understood, at last, so much that had seemed perplex¬ 
ing in Nadya; her false, excessive gaiety, the way she 
plunged into making the cabaret prosper, the tireless, 
almost fanatical energy of it all. Poor Nadya, who so 
lightly would have wrecked him; and yet, imagining 
that self-same threat against him from an alien hand, 
must tear herself asunder now in unavailing fear. 

A dog and a bone, maybe! But no, it could logically 
be something more. Here was the new Daniel Hinty, 
the man whom Nadya Skolnikova had never seen, the 
man who by a ten-millionth chance might grope his 
way to the stars. Perhaps, beneath that surprise, her 




126 


CHINESE RIVER 


half-barbaric soul had paused and stared. Perhaps 
Nadya loved him. 

But she must think of herself again. . . . China, 
Tsingtao, the weeks marching on! Where were they 
leading her? Did they lead her to happiness or was it 
only the senseless “marking time”? And Hinty had 
just been in the room for a moment to reassure him¬ 
self about her, to renew his adoration, yet going from 
her again—quickly, understandingly, venturing no sur¬ 
prise nor question. . . . “Jennie, you look lovely sit¬ 
ting there—like a statue, a goddess! But no! Don’t 
move, don’t speak if you don’t want to. I begin to feel 
that way myself sometimes. One’s mood can be a 
castle—no, a cathedral—no, a sanctuary , damn it. One 
doesn’t want anyone breaking into it”. ... Yes, the 
new man, the new speech, the new thought in him! 

Yet, as he was going from her, she had nearly called 
him back. 

“Danny, I want to tell you something,” she would 
have begun. “That talk you overheard between Nadya 
and myself! That nonsense about woollen undies! 

. . . But, it wasn’t nonsense, Danny. It was para¬ 
ble . . . serious parable . . . the sort of parable that 
wrecks lives . . . breaks hearts. You’ve got to listen, 
Danny! ” 

And she would have told him then ... of the things 
that had brought her there \ of the things that had 
chained her there; of Leith Macalister . . . her 
baby ... of that frailty which a man may only for¬ 
give in himself. 



“freedom is a man!” 


127 


“So, you see, Dannie! She was right. It hasn’t al¬ 
ways been the woollens. It was the silks , the soft 
music . . . . Where’s your goddess now?” 

Yes, and she still must tell him . . . some day . . . 
but how? One did not destroy a vision in a man unless 
one offered him the thing that was nobler. 

Nadya Skolnikova! 

Musingly she echoed that name within herself. 
Then suddenly she uttered it aloud—questioningly, 
seekingly, her voice like a tremulous prayer. 

Yet she rejected that prayer. She laughed, wept a 
little. Getting up, she switched on the radio again, the 
distorted wail of a Hong Kong contralto sobering her 
like a physical assault. 

“I guess he’s become a habit,” she said. 


XIII 

All manner of men came to Hinty y s. They came as 
freely as they might enter a saloon, and with as little 
social distinction. The local commercial men came 
there, entering it quickly from their cars. In its bar 
or card-rooms they passed a fevered school-boyish hour 
or so; then, remembering their wives, went reluctantly 
away. And if they ignored its ballroom, it was not be¬ 
cause of any indifference to it; only that an encounter 
in the street next day with one’s late dance-partner 
might be mildly embarrassing. So effusive were these 
Russians; so lacking in that—er—desirable restraint 






128 


CHINESE RIVER 


which—well, a Britisher was a Britisher! There was a 
time and place for everything! 

The cautious Britishers, who had come to oust the 
pre-war Germans, were only a minority, however. A 
minority were the tourists from the American luxury 
liners, though, when they arrived, the city might sus¬ 
tain itself grandly for a whole month afterwards; a 
minority, also, the leisured-drinking skippers from the 
merchant ships. For, in the summer season, Hinty's 
could draw its clientele from that whole host of holi¬ 
day-makers which came wave-like from the heat of 
Shanghai and Hong Kong, from the stewing middle- 
reaches of the Yangtse river, from the parched, dusty 
plains of the North . . . business men, clerks, shop¬ 
men; men who were not only temporarily rich of purse, 
but who, in the main, left caution and identity behind. 
And swelling their number was that younger, noisier, 
and hardly lesser host which, donning mufti, swept 
ashore each evening from the foreign battleships. 
While, battening upon them all (and it needed a 
sharper man than Hinty to detect their subtle presence! ) 
was that attendant horde of opportunists—beach-comb¬ 
ers, card-sharpers, pimps, racecourse tricksters, con¬ 
fidence-men. 

Yet Hinty's was not truly Hinty's until well past 
midnight, until this eager, masculine mob had thinned 
itself a little. Then, reluctantly had the liberty-men 
returned to the discipline of the battleships, the elderly 
and less demonstrative commercial men to the Grand 
or Strand hotels, the poorer to their boarding-houses. 



“freedom is a man!” 


129 


The discerning would say that the character of Hinty's 
had now become more set, less subject to unexpected 
and possibly irritating change. There would be less 
risk of a fracas in the bar or someone being ejected, 
protesting and empty-pursed, from a card-room. The 
wilder and more youthful element had taken its swift, 
ecstatic hour, and gone away to its headache. Those 
that remained were of sterner quality, more substantial 
both in demeanour and pocket; the men who could 
drink a whole night through, yet come next night again; 
solid men, seasoned men. Old China hands , they called 
themselves, a little proudly. The inveterates y Hinty 
had recently taught himself to dub them. Or, if a better 
description than either of these were needed, one might 
echo the elegant English of Hinty’s educated Chinese 
shroff. . . . “Yes,” he would say, as he consulted his 
new wristwatch behind the glass window of the cash- 
desk, “any gentleman who finds himself here at two 
o’clock in the morning time is liable to stay until break¬ 
fast hour.” 

At three-thirty in the dance-room the cabaret proper 
was usually drawing to a close. The new Eurasian so¬ 
prano from Shanghai had finished her sentimental 
English ballads. . . . Just a Song at Twilight she 
would sing, or Tosti’s Parted. The Serbian troupe had 
finished its acrobatic dancing. Nadya Skolnikova and 
her partner were taking a last encore for their “exhibi¬ 
tion-tango.” There might still be a healthy murmur 
from the adjacent bar, there might still come a full- 
throated roar as the Germans drank “Heil Hitler” and 




130 


CHINESE RIVER 


dashed their glasses to the floor; but to the ballroom 
itself had come an air of quiet, almost of intimate 
seclusion. Less frequently now did one hear the or¬ 
chestra. Its lean, pallid Russians sat back in their chairs, 
smoking and quietly talking among themselves ; they 
retired soon to eat for half an hour; and when they 
returned it was no longer a foxtrot that they played, but 
a waltz, slow, languorous, charged with their own native 
melancholy. While, at a table, the man who in the bar 
had sworn his intention of going home at midnight, 
might now be heard in murmurous tete-a-tete with his 
dance-partner. Yet, he would dance no more that night; 
and quietly, wisely, Nadya Skolnikova would get up 
and go to the electric light switches, experimentally 
manipulating them one by one until rose-tinged soft¬ 
ness held the room and gave deep slumbrous shadows 
to the eyes. Then, surveying and approving that scene 
from the steps of the ante-room, she would whisper- 
ingly seek the head-boy: 

“Boy! Look-see! Champagne nearly finished; num¬ 
ber seven table. ... Yes, new bottle!” 

By which one recognized artistically the coming of 
that strange and brooding finale —The Hour of the 
Womenless Men! 

XIV 

The Hour of the Womenless Men! 

That description need only be euphemistic, polite. 
A man who leaned across the table and stroked a Rus¬ 
sian girl’s hand might, a few thousand miles away, 




“freedom is a man!” 


131 


possess a wife; or no more distant, maybe, than the Ger¬ 
man sanatorium just outside the town in the hills. Yet, 
to satisfy the conscience, there were bachelors enough— 
the elderly, faded men who had wept their hours of 
grief and sent a wife home in a leaden shell; the hard, 
restless roamers who would fly from ordered living as 
fiercely as they had fled from their own parochial 
pumps; the squaw men, the sentimental dreamers who 
had missed their mark, the men who listed their women 
as a hunter might his trophies. There would even come 
the misogynists, who went away strutting, unmoved, 
like Spartans boasting of their strength. 

One might know them by their eyes, their lips, the 
unbridled speech that came from them. . . . “Sure, 
sure, she left me flat, I tell you. Left me for a cheap, 
ham-acting bum from Pasadena. Sister, where do you 
live? I’ll be waiting for you outside.” It would be 
the speech of one who had long ago consoled himself. 
Or a man might sob out his life-story in twenty minutes; 
or take up dross and worship it as gold. . . . “Gosh! 
I’ve got to get you out of here. You were never meant 
for it, my dear. Tomorrow! Tomorrow!” . . . Tense, 
cynical gems might be squandered on ears that recog¬ 
nized only a half dozen words of English. . . . “God! 
what’s life that it’s so darned valuable? A drink, a 
woman, and—well, next you know you’re dead!” 

Yet sometimes there might come a man whose pres¬ 
ence offered no logical explanation whatever; who 
neither wanted to buy one for twenty dollars nor deem 
one priceless; who neither sought to offer a moral nor 



132 


CHINESE RIVER 


extract one; who was not even testing his strength, 
nor getting material for a book; who, so little did that 
Hour of the Womenless Men seem to matter to him, 
might have been sitting in an afternoon tea-shop. 

Such a man, apparently, was John Granger Lee. 

XV 

John Granger Lee! 

No one yet knew him by that name, but they im¬ 
agined him to be English and one of the town’s more 
recent visitors. Tall, thin, loose-limbed and slightly 
awkward of gait, his physical appearance would not 
have attracted much favour until he sat down; and 
then, with his movements stilled and his body in repose, 
one might have taken a second glance at him, marking 
his lean, almost aesthetic features, his sudden air of 
frail, innate dignity. His age was probably forty, 
though his thin, blond hairs and his rather excessively 
blue eyes might have increased the suggestion of his 
years; and he was ill perhaps—not with any specific 
thing, but with the weariness of mind and body which 
sometimes steals unseen to those who have tolerated 
exile too long. As the patrons of Hinty’s might pic¬ 
turesquely have said, he had probably missed too many 
boats! 

But, though that much about him had been observed, 
his identity still challenged description. A business 
man? Hardly! A clerk or commercial traveller? No! 
A naval or military man? Even less likely! With his 




133 


“freedom is a man!” 

strange, self-contained remove, he might almost have 
been a priest, a monk, or the student of some remote 
and abstruse science. Yet such men came to Hinty’s 
never. 

Usually he appeared at about eleven-thirty, when, 
ignoring the bar, he took a seat in the ante-room of 
the ballroom. There, in fluent Chinese, though it was 
not a dialect that anyone recognized, he ordered a 
brandy, with a ginger-ale to give it length. But it was 
noticed that, thereafter, and however late he remained, 
he ordered ginger-ale only. Which was hardly good 
business for Hinty’s . But when towards the early morn¬ 
ing the cabaret was done, and the Hour of the Women- 
less Men had come, he would descend quietly to the 
ballroom and claim a dance with one of its girls. But 
it would be an awkward, amateurish dance; one that 
seemed to give him no pleasure. He did not dance 
again. Taking his partner to her table, he ordered 
champagne—the genuine and expensive variety—but 
only for her. Again in his faultless Chinese would come 
ridiculously his order for ginger-ale. 

His dance-partners could offer no clue to his identity. 
When Anna, the vivacious little brunette from Mukden 
with whom he had sat last, was asked for an account of 
his conversation, she could render it only with diffi¬ 
culty. . . . “Yes, he stay late, very late. He wait for 
me; he take me to my house in rickshaw. But all he 
talk is dance . . . cabaret . . . how I like my job . . . 
where is my mother, my father? He leave me at door; 
he say good night , thank you; then he go away. When 






134 


CHINESE RIVER 


I go to bed and I tell my husband I drink number-one 
champagne and no one ask to sleep with me, my hus¬ 
band laugh and do not believe. “Tshort!” he say. ‘Per¬ 
haps you lose your good looks! Perhaps soon I work 
instead.’ ” 

“Sure!” exclaimed Nadya Skolnikova, commenting 
on that story. “He’s sick! But sick with what?” 

There came a time when they took their perplexity 
to Hinty. He smiled, he frowned, he smiled again. 

“Well, it’s no one’s business, as long as he’s happy 
here,” he said. 

Their concern about the mystery man was infectious, 
however. 

“Why not get into talk with him?” he suggested to 
Nadya Skolnikova. But he retracted that speech. 

“No, don’t!” he uttered rather tactlessly. “Perhaps 
I’ll get Miss Davidson to give him the once-over.” 

That opportunity presented itself a few nights later. 
Jennie and Hinty were returning at about twelve-thirty 
from their first visit to the house of old Carson. They 
had dined there, and played bridge. Yet, nowadays, 
Hinty’s pleasure in being “adopted” by old Carson 
could seem a little less childish, more restrained. 

“Carson was rather flattering about my bridge to¬ 
night,” he murmured as they got from the car. “Still, 
he needn’t overdo it quite so much. I guess, if it weren’t 
for the chance of seeing you, he wouldn’t be interested 
in me at all.” 

That remark was probably true. But old Carson’s 
hospitality had been generous that night, and she was 



“freedom is a man!” 


135 


in a good mood. She need not be unduly distressed. 

“You’re a jealous old kill-joy,” she teased him. At 
which, pinching her arm, he laughed. 

“Jealous! Not a bit! I know you too well for that,” 
he retorted. “But I know my limitations also. There’s 
no sense in Carson’s pretending to treat me like the 
King of England when I’m only Dannie Hinty.” 

She mused that speech as they entered the building 
and climbed the stairs. “Perhaps he’s no longer Dannie 
Hinty!” came her warm thought for him, but one 
might never dare to express it. 

But now, having reached the first floor, they were 
halting, peering into the various rooms of the crowded 
cabaret. 

“Twelve-thirty, and almost a full house!” he ex¬ 
claimed approvingly. 

And then for a second time he stared into the ante¬ 
room. 

“Don’t look for a moment, but there’s that chap I 
told you about,” he whispered. “There, sitting in the 
corner by himself.” 

Discreetly she followed his gaze. 

“He looks ill,” she commented at last. “And, really! 
Someone ought to get him to take an interest in his 

clothes.” 

He nodded. 

“Sure! The man’s thoughts seem to burn him up. 
Gosh! it seems hardly decent to let him sit there like 
it, night after night. It’s almost like taking his money 
under false pretences. 



136 


CHINESE RIVER 


“But, look here!” he added suddenly. “I need a 
drink. And there isn’t an empty table to be seen any¬ 
where. Why not make it an excuse to crash in on him?” 

XVI 

In the easy manner which was the rule at Hinty’s 
they had claimed his company, pleading that they might 
share his table until another became vacant. Under 
Daniel Hinty’s genial influence, the three of them had 
drunk together; lightly, casually, they had discussed 
the heat, the latest political situation, the festive, holiday 
air of the town. They had introduced themselves to 
each other. . . . “John Granger Lee,” he had said, 
though the name conveyed nothing to them. Then, 
as he had planned to do, Hinty found a plausible excuse 
and disappeared. 

“So you like Tsingtao!” Jennie exclaimed when she 
and John Lee were alone. Yet she seemed to remember 
having uttered that comment before; so that, when he 
had answered it again with his slow, smiling nod, she 
could not think of anything more to say. Perhaps she 
ought to be leaving him. 

But at last she took courage and spoke of Hinty’s. 

“What do you think of this place?” she asked. “I 
think I’ve seen you here before.” 

A slight hint of colour came to his pale cheeks. 

“Yes, I’ve been here fairly frequently,” he ad¬ 
mitted. “Pm on holiday, sick-leave actually, and if it’s 
too hot to sleep— and I don’t sleep very well in these 



“freedom is a man!” 


137 


days—there’s precious little to do except come to a 
place like this, or walk about.” 

He was silent for a moment, as he gave his strange 
enigmatic gaze to the movements of Nadya Skolnikova. 
Laughing musically at their flattered protests, Nadya 
was skilfully weaning a couple of semi-drunk Nor¬ 
wegian sea-captains from the bar, and shepherding them 
to the more expensive dance-room. 

“Well,” he was continuing musingly, “you ask me 
do I like this place. A difficult question to answer! For 
I suspect that, like Mr. Hinty, you’ve some sort of 
business interest here. But, frankly, if the whole place 
were wiped out by an earthquake, I couldn’t be very 
sorry. Yes, your friend Hinty surprises me. He struck 
me as being a decent sort of fellow who might have a 
conscience somewhat above this sort of racket.” 

Yet he grinned suddenly. 

“No, I’m not going to apologize to you for having 
said that,” he exclaimed. “But don’t take it too seri¬ 
ously. One half of me is thinking like a hypocrite. I 
came here because—well, I enjoy being a spectator, I 
imagine, even though I don’t particularly want to enter 
into the things I see people doing.” 

He paused to mark a burst of applause and laughter 
from the adjacent dance-room. The cabaret was now 
in progress, and, with her skirts lifted and her dainty 
knees flashing, Nadya Skolnikova was impersonating a 
famous film actress. 

“Yes,” he continued when his eyes had dwelt a little 
lingeringly on that sight of her. “There’s life 




138 


CHINESE RIVER 


here ... a lot of life j many moods of it . . . and 
all conveniently centred in one small compass. 

“And perhaps I haven’t seen too much of life!” he 
added almost whisperingly. 

It was a strange speech for a man of his years to be 
making, and in that place. It reminded her somewhat 
of that distant day when she, a very small and only 
half-understanding child, had seen her uncle come and 
make farewell to her parents before he went next day 
to the War in Flanders. “Well, cheerio! And I’ll 
come back. But it seems only like yesterday that I was 
trying to spin a top,” he had uttered wistfully. And 
he had not come back. But only a young man might 
legitimately speak like that—a very young man. 

She would not betray her curiosity about him, how¬ 
ever. 

“Well, I’ve tried to imagine Mr. Hinty getting his 
living in some other way,” she murmured, subtly chang¬ 
ing the subject. “It might be difficult for him, if he’s 
done nothing else. And he’s generous. He gives his 
money away almost as fast as he makes it. As for these 
girls here, well, I hope I’m not catty; but, if they don’t 
choose to be saints, it’s hardly his fault. He pays them 
generously enough— far better than any other cabaret- 
proprietor does. 

“Yes,” she added, frowning at her memories, “he 
even pays their hospital expenses when they’re sick.” 

But later she could put that discreet question to him. 

“You say you’re on sick-leave, Mr. Lee. Where have 
you come from?” 



FREEDOM IS A Man!” 


139 


a 


He seemed embarrassed suddenly, but, after a mo¬ 
ment’s hesitation, he answered her. 

“I come from up-river ... the Yangtse river, of 
course.” 

He frowned then, and glanced down to the dance- 
room. Nadya Skolnikova’s cabaret act had just finished. 
She was taking her applause, bowing, retreating, blow¬ 
ing kisses, returning bird-like to the floor again. 

“That girl seems to be the soul of happiness,” he 
murmured. 

“I wonder!” she almost retorted, but she must not 
let him elude her again. 

“Do I know the place?” she asked. “I was up-river 
myself some time ago. Nanking!” 

“It’s hardly likely,” he answered. “I’m days and 
weeks beyond Nanking . . . Chwan Hu, a little place 
far beyond the Ichang gorges. And that’s far enough, 
you’ll say. Chwan Hu! You wouldn’t know it.” 

“What do you do there?” 

“Do?” . . . Did he seek another tantalizing vision 
of Nadya, or had one embarrassed him again? But he 
faltered; he glanced down to the ballroom once more. 
“Well, I’m quite unimportant,” he tried to assure her. 

“But, look here!” he protested with a grin. “This 
is sick-leave—holiday! And I have to leave here in 
about ten days. Perhaps I’m trying not to think of 
work.” 

And then the strange, intense blue of his eyes was 
heightened in an expression that was almost of anger. 

“I’m a fool!” he exclaimed, and his look seemed to 




140 


CHINESE RIVER 


utter a wild, uncouth challenge. “Why shouldn’t I 
tell you? . . . Smile as much as you please, Miss 
Davidson—Pm a missionary! 

“It’s true,” he continued whisperingly. “Even 
though you find me in Hmty’s y Pm trying to teach 
God to people! Pm a missionary. 

“Yes, and Pve got a wife somewhere!” 

At which he got suddenly to his feet. 

“Excuse me,” he blurted. “I think Pll be on my 
way.” 


XVII 

She had persuaded John Granger Lee to sit down 
again. 

“Really!” she was gently chiding him. “Pm trying 
not to be too annoyed with you. You have a wife, you 
say; you teach God! Very well! But why do you have 
to apologize for these things? Or, if you’re not apolo¬ 
gizing for them, if you’re defending them, why need 
you let this place offend them so terribly? Which is 
quite apart from the fact that you’re with someone who 
may not entirely reflect her surroundings.” 

There came his slow head-shake. 

“You needn’t tell me anything about yourself,” he 
interrupted her. “You belong here even less than I 
do, I fancy. 

“Still, that’s your own story,” he continued grimly. 
“As for the rest of what you’ve said—well, you’re 
right! I’m behaving like a fool. And it’s the way Pve 




141 


“freedom is a man!” 

been ever since I came to Tsingtao. . . . Anyhow, 
now you see what’s eating me. I can’t just make up my 
mind about myself.” 

She had read of the missionaries in China. Who 
hadn’t indeed? Almost weekly, the newspapers pub¬ 
lished the news of one of their number being murdered 
at the whim of out-of-hand soldiers, or kidnapped and 
held for ransom by bandits. And lately, to increase the 
horror of those kidnappings, the missionary authorities 
had yielded to the pressure put upon them by their 
fellow white men, and, in a desperate endeavour to end 
the evil, were refusing to pay ransoms. Thus, a man 
falling into the hands of the bandits might hope at the 
most for early death as an escape from weeks and 
months of lingering torture. Yet, notwithstanding this, 
the zeal and courage of the missionaries seemed even 
greater. But was it worth it? the average person asked. 

She was seeking to discourage his mood. 

“Tell me more about your work,” she murmured. 
“From what one reads about it nowadays, it seems 
extraordinarily heroic.” 

“Heroic! I can see you haven’t been out here very 
long!” he retorted with a laugh. “Walk into that bar 
over there, and you’d get a different opinion about us. 
Teaching the yellow man to be as good as his white 
master isn’t exactly popular with our people. As for 
heroism—well, it’s very much the same psychology. 
The only hero that people recognize is the hero of 
history, the man who had a brave uniform, a sword in 
his hand . . . destroyed something, in short. 




142 


CHINESE RIVER 


“Still, perhaps I sound too much like a Socialist,” 
he commented on that speech. “I’ll answer your ques¬ 
tion.” 

He began to talk of his work. He was the principal 
of one of those much criticized institutions wherein, 
in order to impress itself upon an unenlightened and 
indifferent people, Christianity must first serve their 
physical needs. 

“We have an orphanage there,” he said, “a school, 
a hospital, a clinic for out-patients. In fact, so urgently 
do we have to devote ourselves to healing and feeding 
and clothing them that it’s a marvel we’re able to give 
them any religious instruction at all.” 

He frowned at a burst of ribald song from the bar. 

“And I suppose that’s why most people out here 
sneer at us,” he continued. “They say that, instead of 
getting genuine converts, we’re buying the faith of these 
people. 

“Yes! And it may in many cases be true,” he sighed. 
“I wonder how they would receive us if we had noth¬ 
ing to offer them except words.” 

Yet, as he talked on, that doubt seemed to be for¬ 
gotten. There came his enthusiasm; his strange, intense 
fervour. The missionary schools of China had pro¬ 
duced men who now, among their own people, were 
honoured and famous, he said. The missionary hospi¬ 
tals were banishing the superstitious horrors of native 
“medicine” with the latest wonders of scientific heal¬ 
ing. . . . “Yes, even if Christianity must wait for a 
while, it’s gaining ground,” he cried. “If we haven’t 



“freedom is a man!” 


143 


yet sown the seed, we’re preparing the soil for it. We’re 
preparing people’s minds. When at last we’ve won 
them over with the practical things, the other and 
spiritual things must fall into place naturally. They 
cannot fail to.” 

She pondered that speech, questioning pardonably 
its optimism. Christianity and enlightenment that came 
long ago to a Western world had failed to save it, 
it seemed. Indeed, when bitterly one contemplated a 
civilization that was torn wherever one looked with 
wars and rumours of war, it seemed that Christianity 
was already dead; that, ironically, it had lived only in 
that time of the world’s ignorance and darkness. 

But she would not hurt him with this. 

“Fine!” she exclaimed. “It sounds wonderful.” 

Unexpectedly he grinned at her. 

“Do you really mean that?” 

“Why not?” she retorted, and now she spoke sin¬ 
cerely. “Anything’s fine and wonderful if it seeks to 
improve humanity.” 

“Ay!” he agreed. “But those who scoff at us would 
probably claim we’re not improving humanity; they’ll 
probably argue that we’re corrupting a happy, carefree 
aboriginal into a semi-educated misfit. And there’s 
a little to be said for the contention. 

“But you’re a very unusual woman,” he added sud¬ 
denly and unexpectedly. 

She made an amused murmur. Yet she could not 
refrain from reading into his speech a hint of patronage. 
It now provoked her slightly bitter after-thought. . 



144 


CHINESE RIVER 


“Why should I be unusual because I understand you? 
Or am I unusual only because you meet me in Hinty’s?” 

He was silent for a moment. Then, embarrassed 
newly, he nodded. 

“Which brings us back to where we started!” he 
exclaimed miserably. “Yes, why am I here at all?” 

She shrugged her shoulders, wondering as she had 
wondered several times during that conversation— 
did she admire him, or did she despise him slightly? 

“As long as you don’t apologize for it again, it hardly 
matters,” she commented. “I expect you’re here like 
most people—killing time. Still, because one touches 
pitch one isn’t necessarily defiled, you know.” 

She was forgetting herself, however. He was ill— 
mentally ill, perhaps—and she was hardly being gen¬ 
erous. 

“Anyhow,” she added quickly, “now that you’re feel¬ 
ing better, you’ll soon be back at Chwan Hu . . . your 
work . . . your colleagues. Oh, and you have a wife, 
you said! She’s there at Chwan Hu with you, I take 
it?” 

But immediately she regretted that utterance. 

“A wife at Chwan Hu?” he echoed. “No! My wife 
is far away—England! I shall never see her again, 
probably. She’s—well, you might as well know it; I 
don’t want to see her again. 

“And perhaps that’s why I’m sick!” came his tense 
whisper. “Waiting, waiting, all these years . . . God 
forgive me, tied like a dog to a post.” 

But he recovered himself. 



145 


“freedom is a man!” 

“Pm becoming melodramatic. Sorry!” he exclaimed. 
“And the hysterics still require an explanation. She 
ran away . . . went to someone else. And a divorce? 
Well, there won’t be any . . . ever!” 

“Never?” she queried, and saw his tragic grin. “You 
don’t believe in divorce, you mean. Or perhaps, be¬ 
cause you’re a missionary, your superiors wouldn’t ap¬ 
prove of it.” 

Grimly he chuckled. 

“Their opinions might not matter,” he answered. 
“Still, it won’t happen. Four years ago she was certi¬ 
fied insane. Perhaps you’ll realize what that means! 
An insane person is beyond the law, absolutely. . . . 
And she’s incurably insane!” 

How did one find words for him? Such a speech 
might tell of a man’s bitterest tragedy; yet again it 
might tell nothing! It all depended on the man him¬ 
self, his reactions, whether those happenings had left 
him scarred or unaffected. . . . “Tied like a dog to a 
post!” he had uttered, and it spoke restraint, depriva¬ 
tion, hunger. But, in this China of the white man’s 
exile, many men had made some such utterance. It 
came craving one’s pity like the well-remembered 
whine of a beggar. It did not necessarily wring one. 

Perhaps he was different, however. One remem¬ 
bered, for instance, the naive little story which Anna 
the dance-partner had told of him. One remembered, 
too, that he was a missionary; a man who taught GW, 
to use his own words. One hoped! 

“I’m sorry!” she heard herself murmur. “Very 




146 


CHINESE RIVER 


sorry!” It sounded cold, inadequate, insincere per¬ 
haps. Still, what else might one say to him, even in 
charity? 

When eventually he had gone, she was joined by 
Hinty and one of the cabaret’s more regular patrons, 
a local storekeeper named Brennan. 

“Huh! a missionary on the loose!” Brennan ex¬ 
claimed, when she had told some little of John Granger 
Lee’s story. “Why didn’t we think of it, Hinty? It 
fits him exactly. . . . Damned funny!” 

Brennan saw her frown. He laughed. 

“Huh, you women are too soft!” he continued. 
“Don’t think I’ve got anything against religion itself. 
My only grouse is against the people who bring it into 
contempt. Either they’re a bunch of crazy Aunt Bet¬ 
ties who think this nigger-kissing racket’s more roman¬ 
tic than staying home and feeding the hungry; or else 
they’re a pack of professional Bible-punching bums 
like this guy-” 

She interrupted him almost coldly. 

“If he can be frank enough to doubt the value of 
what he’s doing, he’s sincere enough, I imagine.” 

At which Brennan laughed again. 

“Sure, and he’s sincere enough to spend his sick 
leave where he can see a leg or two!” he retorted 
hugely. “And he can’t get a divorce, eh? Well, if 
that isn’t too bad! Still, they were putting that little 
joke in the museum far back as the alligator’s wisdom- 
teeth.” 

She shrugged her shoulders and moved away. There 




147 


“freedom is a man!” 


was an answer to that speech, surely. But was it worth 
it? Brennan would hardly understand. 

Nor would Brennan have understood those words 
which later she uttered to Hinty: 

“Danny, perhaps Pm a fool to be bothering about 
him, but be a dear . . . try and see what’s happen- 
ing. He’s standing at some horrible and dangerous 
cross-roads—just like you yourself were, Danny! Yes, 
let’s try to get hold of him—before it’s too late. Ask 
him to dinner . . . make him laugh . . . get him 
drunk! Anything! ” 


XVIII 

Jennie and Nadya Skolnikova were in ever-increas¬ 
ing contact with each other. With Daniel Hinty’s hap¬ 
piness and success so largely depending on them, it was 
inevitable perhaps. 

Yet, strangely and to the surprise of everyone, there 
had been no recurrence of that early quarrel between 
them. The subject of their respective relationship with 
Hinty seemed to have been tacitly shelved. One saw 
only their growing respect for each other; possibly, 
in the case of Nadya’s regard for Jennie, a half-grudg¬ 
ing admiration. Jennie, too, could be grateful for the 
Russian girl’s never-failing quick-wittedness, her gaiety, 
her optimism; and she could be wrung sympathetically 
because she knew how much genuine heart-ache those 
things concealed. Yes, in her unthinking, pagan way, 
Nadya might still find pleasure with some good-look- 



148 


CHINESE RIVER 


ing and care-free scallywag occasionally; yet, for all 
this, she loved Hinty; her slavish and futile adoration 
of him became more apparent each day. 

Jennie’s reaction to Nadya’s strange, new infatua¬ 
tion was something which she had not yet been able 
to define. Was she jealous of Nadya? She could not 
say, but it was certainly not the jealousy of a woman 
who fears only for herself. Rather might it be the 
jealousy of the proud craftsman who, having begun 
the fashioning of something dignified and worthy, per¬ 
mits no alien hand to touch it until his task is done. . . . 
“Yes,” was sometimes her thought, “when he’s more 
sure of himself, perhaps I can move on. Perhaps he’d 
do without me, if Nadya could only convince him.” 

At which would come that vision of them . . . 
Nadya and Hinty together; marrying probably; find¬ 
ing in their new respect for each other the happiness 
which had eluded them before. 

But could that happen? Sometimes his unconscious 
indifference to Nadya amazed one. There was that day 
when Jennie had interrupted his reading of a newly ac¬ 
quired volume of Shakespeare to remark that the mor¬ 
row was Nadya’s birthday. 

"Which Nadya?” he retorted. “There are about a 
dozen different Nadya’s downstairs.” 

Then he grinned. 

“Oh yes! Your Nadya, our Nadya!” he said indul¬ 
gently. “Nadya Skolnikova! Remind me to give her a 
present. . . . Marvellous the v/ay you’ve fallen for 
each other!” 



149 


“freedom is a man!” 

Had that been his genuine forgetfulness of Nadya, 
or merely his clever teasing? She did not know. Any¬ 
how, it was sufficient to indicate his new tranquility, his 
perfect contentment. 

As for his comment on her relationship with Nadya, 
well, it might be an exaggeration, but in substance at 
least it was true. One should be happy because of it. 

Yet sometimes one sensed an immense and immi¬ 
nent threat to it all. 


XIX 

There was that occasion, for instance, when Jennie 
found Nadya weeping. 

“What’s the matter with me? . . . nothing !” the 
Russian girl tried laughingly to reassure her. “Just 
a pain in my tummy. Sure! Sweet of you! But run 
along! ” 

Yet eventually she was unhappily confessing it. 

“I didn’t want to tell you, but I—well, it’s Hinty! 
And now call me a cheap little Vesuvius for boiling 
over again.” 

Jennie laid a hand on her gleaming yellow hair. 

“You don’t have to apologize, my dear,” she mur¬ 
mured. “I’ve known it a long time. You love him! 
Why not?” 

Then impulsively she had added it. 

“Nadya, we’re pals! What do you want me to do? 
. . . I imagine I’d do most things for you if—if it 
didn’t involve hurting him too much.” 




150 


CHINESE RIVER . 


Nadya looked up suddenly. There was surprise in 
that movement; incredulous questioning. 

“You’d leave him, you mean?” 

A pause; and then: 

“If I thought you could make him happier— yes!” 

“Make him happier? . . . Leave him?” 

Smiling through her tears, yet still only half-believ¬ 
ing, the Russian girl made tremulous, silvery echo of 
those words, her face upturned, her eyes wide and 
childlike and unashamed. At which once more must 
Jennie touch her hair, and muse a little on that vision 
of her. . . . 

“How beautiful is a woman in love!” ran her 
thought. “How beautiful even her grief!” 

But suddenly and passionately was Nadya breaking 
from her, getting to her feet. All in a moment could 
she amaze one. 

“Jennie, don’t leave him! For God’s sake! You’d 
smash him! Can’t you see it’s just what he’s fearing 
all the time? Yes, smash him!” 

And then she made noisy mockery of that speech. 

“Oh, God! Aren’t we a couple of silly bitches! 
Anyone would think we drew our breath through him. 
God, let’s find a drink!” 

Jennie was slowly nodding. 

“Perhaps we are!” she uttered. “But come along! 
What’s on your mind about Danny? . . . I’d been 
thinking he was happier lately.” 

There came Nadya’s brief, bitter laugh. 

“You’d think so, to look at him! Sure, and so did 



151 


“freedom is a man!” 

I, at first. But, Jennie, that calm, ritzy exterior of his 
doesn’t mean a thing! It’s just that he’s been a good 
pupil.” 

She paused for a moment, choosing her words with 
care. 

“Yes,” she continued, “you’ve taught him some¬ 
thing which this poor, emotional fool couldn’t acquire 
in a thousand years. You’ve taught him your good old- 
fashioned, aristocratic British snootiness. And you don’t 
have to fight me over the word. I’m not trying to in¬ 
sult you. But— snootiness? Well, if you’re snooty, 
you don’t weep at a funeral, for instance; you don’t 
show fear; in fact, you don’t show too much of any¬ 
thing. Bad form! Not done! As for loving anybody, 
well, even if a girlie’s just promised to marry a guy, 
she doesn’t sprinkle him with star-dust all at once. 
No, she remains in the perpendicular for a while. . . . 
‘Well, that’s that! Funny face, give me a fag!’ she 
says.” 

She grinned at Jennie’s amused laughter. 

“Sure, and I’m exaggerating!” she exclaimed. “But 
I think you understand me. . . . You’ve taught him 
things; how to keep his hands still; how to put a chain 
on his emotions. Yeah, and you don’t have to be sorry 
for it. I like him that way. You’ve made a man out 
of him. And if ever I’ve said otherwise, I guess I was 
only trying to hurt you. 

“But now you’ve made him that way,” she continued 
almost passionately, “don’t blame him if he can’t be 
any other way; don’t blame him if he becomes a little 




152 


CHINESE RIVER 


bit snooty too; don’t blame him if he laughs when all 
he wants to do is weep perhaps. . . . Sure, but Pd 
better stop! Pm angering you. In any event, there’s 
such a thing as going to hell and minding my own 
business.” 

Softly Jennie was answering her. 

“It is your business—yours more than mine. Yes, 
you love him! And Pm not angry. But, Nadya, even 
now you’re not telling me everything. Why is he un¬ 
happy about me? Is it because I can’t love him?” 

Nadya nodded. 

“And because he thinks you’ll go away, Jennie.” 

Yet her gaze faltered; she was miserably tearful 
again. 

“No, perhaps Pm wrong. Perhaps Pm only fearing 
he’ll be unhappy,” she now tortured herself. “But, 
Jennie! Jennie! I’ve got to ask you something. . . .” 

She paused. Perplexingly, she shook her head. . . . 
“No, no! Pm a fool. Forget it, Jennie!”. . . Then 
wildly that confession was wrung from her. 

“Jennie, this man! This missionary! I know it’s 
not my business. But why must you go on seeing him?” 

Jennie winced. For a moment she stood speechless 
and resentful. Yet she must heed again that swift, pas¬ 
sionate torrent which was the voice of Nadya’s mis¬ 
ery. . . . 

“Jennie, for God’s sake don’t misunderstand! It’s 
for Danny’s sake—not mine! Pm not trying to make 
him hate you; Pm trying to keep him loving you . . . 
loving you, I said. And if you call me a hypocrite I 




153 


“freedom is a man! ” 

can’t help it. But I want him happy . . . anyway . . . 
loving you, forgetting me . . . any bloody way, as 
long as he’s happy. 

“Yes,” she sobbed, “it would break his heart!” 

At last was Jennie answering her. She laughed. 
Lightly she took Nadya’s hand and kissed it; for a 
moment she held it to her breast. 

“Shut up!” she cried. “Don’t be such a dramatic 
little fool.” 

And then, sitting down suddenly, she stared blankly 
before her. 

“Oh, God! We women!” she breathed. 


XX 

It was true. She had been seeing John Granger 
Lee rather frequently. There had been nothing clan¬ 
destine in their relationship; in fact, often had Daniel 
Hinty joined them, taking them out to the hills in his 
car or accompanying them to the beach. And though 
the two men had nothing in common, Hinty liked the 
missionary, she fancied; at least, he was sorry for him. 

Yet, now that Lee had come so subtly into their lives, 
she could re-examine herself and see that she had been 
indiscreet. Undoubtedly she was taking Hinty’s friendly 
tolerance a little too much for granted. 

“Nadya, I guess you’re right,” she exclaimed sud¬ 
denly. “Danny’s been fine, but I can’t expect him to 
go on wet-nursing Mr. Lee for ever. . . . Tell me, 
has he ever said anything about it?” 



154 


CHINESE RIVER 


“Said anything? You should know Danny better!” 
Nadya reproved her. “He’d rather cut his tongue 
out. . . . But there are others.” 

“Then, people are talking!” 

“Sure! Just like poor auntie at a gin-feast.” 

“The girls, you mean?” 

“Yes, and the men; the people who matter! . . . 
Old Carson! Brennan! Danny’s own pals. And don’t 
get ’em wrong. They’re not trying to pull the bed¬ 
spread off you exactly. But what they can’t understand 
is just how he can teach you anything. God! He’s a 
flat tyre.” 

Jennie smiled. 

“Well, if that’s all they say, it isn’t too bad,” she 
commented. “Anyhow, cheer up. In a very few days 
he’ll be on his way most likely. We shall never see 
him again. 

“But, Nadya, I can’t help feeling sorry for him,” 
she had to add impulsively. “And there’s a whole lot 
in him that’s fine and courageous. If people call him a 
flat tyre, then it’s their shortcoming—not his. It’s easy 
to look manly when you’re sitting astride a beer-barrel. 
Still, it’s just as manly to face the ridicule and leave 
the beer-barrel alone.” 

Nadya grimaced. 

“You can forget what the men think about him,” 
she retorted. “Sure you’re dead right about ’em. What 
the average man sees in anyone except himself wouldn’t 
fill the eye of a needle. But you don’t fool me about 
him, Jennie. He’s crazy about you . . . hungry! God, 



“freedom is a man!” 


155 


if you don’t watch your step, he’ll make you sorry.” 

For a long time Jennie was silent, seeking to strip 
that warning of its exaggeration, yet acknowledging 
nevertheless its undeniable logic. She could still recall, 
for instance, the bitter, self-torturing mood which had 
distinguished Lee’s last talk with her. He had re¬ 
ferred once again to his unfortunate marriage; the fact 
that, under the rigorous English divorce law, nothing 
could free him from it except death. . . . “Her death! 
But I daren’t think of it!” he had cried. “If only there 
were some other way!” And he had stared at her . . . 
stared ... so that one shrank from it as from a hot 
and withering breath. 

“Nadya, he’s lonely,” she heard herself answering 
at last. “And, though he hasn’t told me so, I rather 
fancy he’s been true to her . . . true to his ideals, to 
be more exact.” 

But if he mattered so little to her, why need she 
talk about him so much? She gave her companion a 
reassuring grin. 

“Well, don’t let’s worry about him any more,” she 
exclaimed. “Nadya, I promise you, I won’t do any¬ 
thing foolish . . . nothing to hurt Danny.” 

Which earned for her Nadya’s typically impulsive 
gratitude, her affectionate hug. 

“And you’re not sore with me, Jennie?” the Rus¬ 
sian girl would have her yield. 

“Sore? Not a bit!” Jennie answered. “I guess it 
took us a while to get used to each other, Nadya, 
but you’re the greatest little sport I know.” 



156 


CHINESE RIVER 


“Thanks . . . thanks, Jennie!” Crazily, Nadya’s 
tears had to mingle with her laughter again. Yet, in 
her strange Slavonic way, she must pause again and 
frown. 

“No, Jennie! Don’t like me too much” she begged. 
“Yes, I’m your friend, but no woman is another woman’s 
friend always. The best of us are—well, I know you 
hate the word, but there’s no other word that fits it. 
Where two women and a man are concerned, the best 
of women can sometimes be bitches . . . absolute 
bitches.” 

Jennie laughed. v 

“And how!” she agreed. “But snap out of it. Come 
along and have a drink.” 

Yet, perplexingly, Nadya shook her head. 

“There’s something I’ve been trying to tell you— 
and for a long time,” she answered. “And, Jennie, 
you’ve got to hear it.” 

She hesitated for a moment j then miserably she 
blurted it: 

“That hospital! That hospital in Shanghai where I 
had my operation . . . where you went when you had 
that accident! Well, you won’t like it, but I can’t 
keep it shut up any longer. I know the rest of the 
story, Jennie. Yes, women talk—even nurses!” 

“You mean?” 

“I mean that when you had that accident you were 
going to have a child. . . . Oh, God! And now I’ve 
said it!” 

Jennie looked at her—long, searchingly. Yet she 



157 


“freedom is a man!” 


saw in Nadya’s face only the expression of her most 
abject misery. Why should Nadya have confessed 
it, if it yielded her such hurt and humiliation? Why, 
and why again? 

At last she nodded. 

“Yes, it’s true,” she whispered. “And Pm not the 
least little bit ashamed of it. But must it distress you 
so much, just because you didn’t tell me?” 

“Danny didn’t know!” 

“No, he didn’t! Why should he? It wasn’t his privi¬ 
lege to know. I came here like anyone else—to earn 
my bread!” 

Suddenly, however, there came to her that thought 
which was surely the explanation. 

“Nadya, are you trying to confess to me that you’ve 
told him?” she demanded. 

“Have I told him?” . . . The Russian girl’s eyes 
seemed to hold the demented fear of a hunted ani¬ 
mal. . . . “Told him? Oh, God, if I tell him, Jen¬ 
nie, may I die, may I be struck dead!” 

Yet, hard upon such passionate denial, Jennie heard 
that utterance which for ever afterwards, in her contact 
with Hinty, would cloud her days. 

The Russian girl was standing up facing her. Now, 
in strange contrast to her mood of a moment ago, her 
voice was calm. In the smooth, protecting manner of 
an elder sister, she took Jennie’s hands; she smiled. 

“No, my dear,” she continued, “even the worst of 
us wouldn’t plan a thing like that. But, Jennie, you 
must understand people, especially poor, crazy people 






158 


CHINESE RIVER 


like myself. It isn’t the wickedness we flan to do; it’s 
the thing that gets hold of us on the impulse . . . the 
devil in us, the bitch in us! Sure, I guess if I were 
angry enough, and drunk enough, and a knife were in 
my hand, I’d kill my own mother. And all the love 
that I’d had for her wouldn’t mean a thing. . . . Yes, 
Jennie! That day when first I knew he didn’t want 
me any more, I nearly told him. God forgive me, I 
did!” 

And then, as though she had regretted that speech 
already, she let fall an impatient oath. 

“Huh! I’m dramatizing myself again, just like 
poor Poll in a hen-house. Forget it, Jennie. That was 
a long time ago—when I didn’t know you. I guess I’ve 
been thinking about that damned missionary too much. 
Forget it! All I meant to say was . . . Danny’s fine! 
I know you wouldn’t hurt him.” 

XXI 

It would not matter that Nadya might prefer to 
die rather than betray that secret. Friend though she 
was, fine and courageous and chivalrous though she was, 
the scheme of things to come must take no count of 
her. Nadya indeed would surely quarrel with that de¬ 
cision, weep or rave against what she might call its 
suicidal futility, its purposeless traffic with a dead Past; 
yet decision had been made. Come weal or woe, it mat¬ 
tered only now that Hinty must be told! 

How long overdue might be that moment of confes- 



159 


“freedom is a man!” 


sing it to him, she could not hazard. Like that unbe¬ 
lievable change in the man himself, it had stolen on her 
subtly, unexpectedly; one could only look back and 
feel that, by a strange trick of memory, perhaps, the 
need to be honest with him had existed from the begin¬ 
ning. . . . Had he ever slobbered a drunken apology 
for being the Islington washerwoman’s son? It seemed 
impossible. 

She sat in her darkening sitting-room, wondering 
how she would approach him; with what particular 
background of self , with what particular vision of him 
to blend with it, with what goal before her. Did she 
love him? No, not even now! Only a great tender¬ 
ness filled her, a wide and ever-growing sense of re¬ 
sponsibility, of intimate caring. If any hurt were to 
befall him now, she could grieve and know it as her 
own. 

No, she did not love him! But might it not amount 
to the same thing? To tell him, yet seek to justify her¬ 
self, was surely to reveal her changing mood towards 
him, to give him assurance and promise where none 
had existed before. He might not think thus imme¬ 
diately, but slowly, in his lonely silences, it would 
dawn on him. . . . “She came to me free, aloof, in¬ 
dependent. She owed me nothing; her secrets least 
* of all. Yet now she tells me!” . . . Yes, confession 
would be a gift to him, the acknowledged readjust¬ 
ment of their status, the opening of a wide and limit¬ 
less path beyond. 

Nevertheless, confession must be made. 



160 


CHINESE RIVER 


She went to him on an impulse when she heard him 
enter the apartment. She would see him before he 
took his bath and dressed. Yet, as she opened her door 
and called his name, she saw him coming towards her. 

“Telepathy! ” he exclaimed. “I was just about to 
look you up.” 

He flourished a typewritten letter. 

“Come in,” she answered; but she gave him a second 
glance. He looked grave and worried. Curiosity over¬ 
coming her, she forgot herself for a moment. 

“I’ve got to go away,” he surprised her. “Tonight! 
I’ve just managed to get a berth on a Japanese boat for 
Shanghai.” 

“Not bad news, I hope?” she murmured, and it was 
strange how her voice could hold a tremor. 

“No,” he assured her. “Nothing like that. Just 
an unexpected piece of business worry. My Shanghai 
solicitors want to see me urgently ... a threatened 
law-suit against a firm in which I invested a slice of 
money a while ago. Tough! Pd thought of taking you 
and Lee out to Laushan tomorrow. 

“Gosh! But don’t look so scared!” he teased. 

Then he stared at her more searchingly. 

“You’ve been weeping!” he exclaimed. 

She had been weeping, indeed. But she hesitated. 
To confess it would be to confess everything. Could 
she burden him with it now? He was preoccupied, wor¬ 
ried ; only a very grave matter would have called him 
away so suddenly. 

“Danny,” she retorted lightly, “your vast experience 



161 


“freedom is a man! ” 


should have taught you that a woman’s tears mean any¬ 
thing or nothing. Actually, Pve been washing a piece 
of the Strand beach from my eye. I haven’t been weep¬ 
ing at all. 

“But how long will you be away?” she added a little 
anxiously. 

He began clumsy calculation. 

“Well, I can’t expect this Japanese boat to make 
Shanghai until the morning after tomorrow. A day 
there, perhaps two, and there’s always the chance of 
having to wait a day for a boat back. Six or seven days, 
let’s say. And all for one legal pow-wow.” 

“Seven days!” she echoed, and her spirits fell. How 
could she wait so long to tell him? 

“Danny, is it so very serious?” she demanded then. 
“I mean, are you really worried about it?” 

He grinned. 

“Well, the solicitors seem to think I ought to be,” 
he answered. “They’ve never been happy about the 
way I parted with that money . . . called me no end 
of a fool because I didn’t consult ’em in the first place; 
though the business belongs to friends of mine—very 
old friends—and I hardly imagined they’d be getting 
themselves into hot water. Anyhow, it seems that I 
stand a chance of losing most of it. 

“But what does it matter?” he tried to console him¬ 
self. “I shouldn’t be beggared exactly. Look here, if 
you don’t want me to go, I’ll wire them to come up 
here instead.” 

She shook her head. 





162 


CHINESE RIVER 


“That would be both expensive and timewasting,” 
she reproved him. “No, you’ll have to go. I’ll help 
the ‘boy’ pack your things. 

“But Danny, why not let me come with you?” she 
blurted suddenly. 

“Come with me?” 

Dignified as was this strange, new man before her, 
she saw his flattered surprise. 

“Gosh! That would be great!” he exclaimed, and 
it was the excited utterance of a schoolboy almost. 

But he recovered himself. 

“Shanghai in this heat!” he reminded her. “You’d 
hate it. . . . But what did you think of doing, if you 
came? I mean, these solicitors won’t be allowing me 
too much time for keeping you amused.” 

“I’ll buy hats,” she said. “And there’s always Dora. 
But I was thinking I might be useful. Perhaps on the 
boat you could dictate a few notes on what you wanted 
to discuss with these solicitors. I could take a portable 
typewriter with me and resuscitate my shorthand. . . . 
Your confidential secretary, in short.” 

He laughed. 

“It sounds princely!” he commented. 

“Yes, and on the way back, when it was off your 
mind again, we could take things easily,” she con¬ 
tinued quickly. “Stroll the deck, air ourselves, pre¬ 
tend it was a trip to America we were taking.” 

He stared at her. Had he seen her so eagerly friendly 
before? He doubted it. 

“Er—then, you’d really like it?” 



163 


“freedom is a man!” 

Only for a moment did she hesitate, and then: 

“Yes, Danny. Why not? And we’d talk, get to 
know each other, swap our experiences of the old days. 
Good heavens, we haven’t even told each other about 
our own grandmothers! ” 

He stared at her again, marking her flushed cheeks, 
her excited breathing. That extraordinary enthusiasm 
could still puzzle him. Yet in a moment he had satis¬ 
fied himself. 

“By the way, have you seen Nadya today?” he asked 
artlessly. 

“Er—yes,” she answered. “I was with her almost 
the whole afternoon.” 

At which sagely he smiled and folded his letter, re¬ 
calling Nadya’s time-honoured misdemeanour of taking 
her late-afternoon “tea” from the private stock of 
whisky and soda-water which he kept in his office. 

“Ah, I thought so!” he commented. “Well, it’s 
good to see you so happy.” 

And then he made a step nearer to her. 

“Yes, you are happy nowadays?” he breathed. “Jen¬ 
nie, there was a time when I didn’t think it possible.” 

“Don’t be absurd!” she retorted. 

Laughing, she broke lightly away from him. 

“But, Danny,” she reminded him, “if we don’t 
hurry, we’ll miss that boat.” 

He was strangely silent. She heard his tense breath¬ 
ing. 

“May I tell you something?” he said at last. “You’re 
the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen.” 



164 


CHINESE RIVER 


Yet before she could think upon that speech, he had 
surprised her. 

“Nevertheless, young lady, you’re not coming.” 

“Any particular reason, elderly sir?” . . . She had 
been marvelling for a moment at the unexpected calm¬ 
ness of that refusal. 

“Well, yes, several,” he answered with a grin. “First 
of all, Shanghai’s no place for you in this weather.” 

“Test me! Where heat’s concerned I’m a perfect 
salamander.” 

“Secondly, this Japanese maru is hardly the Queen 
Mary for luxury.” 

“I’m a perfect Spartan, too!” 

“Thirdly and finally, I was only just in time to get 
the last available berth on it.” 

“Which seems to settle it,” she said resignedly. 
“But what are your other reasons?” She could not 
resist teasing him. At which he laughed. 

“I said thirdly and finally ” he reminded her. Yet 
he grew serious again. 

“Well, there might have been other reasons, Jen¬ 
nie—bigger ones. If you and I were making that trip, 
people would talk too much about it. I’d want to 
smash ’em.” 

She laughed. 

“Sweet of you, Danny. But have you ever thought 
of it! People might think just the same about our be¬ 
ing here together.” 

He frowned. “Yes, they might,” he agreed, and so 
solemnly did he say it that she almost laughed. “Still, 
it isn’t quite the same. We’re more under people’s eyes 



“freedom is a man!” 


165 


in this place. And don’t forget—if you want to check 
up on a man and woman in China, it’s the easiest thing. 
Servants talk! You just slip a five-dollar bill into the 
head boy’s hand and he’ll give you a full-length novel 
on them, not excluding the brands of tooth-paste they 
use. 

“However,” he added, and he frowned even more 
deeply, “the feeling that people might get the wrong 
idea about you has been rather a lot in my mind lately. 
People respect us, I think; still, when the holiday season 
is over and the hotels are empty, what would you say to 
my getting you an apartment down at the Grand?” 

“Why not? And a private staircase leading to it; 
my name in letters of purest gold on its door!” she 
teased him. 

Yet suddenly she wanted to weep. 

“Danny, why must you reverence me so much?” 
she pleaded with him. “Sometimes it’s more than I 
can bear. Pm not wonderful, Pm not lovely. God, if 
you only knew me as I am!” 

“Huh!” He grinned ruefully at his wrist-watch. 
“I shall have to change,” he exclaimed. “Jennie, come 
to the boat with me. But come alone. Don’t bring any¬ 
one else.” 


XXII 

He had changed; his packing was done; they had 
snatched a brief meal; they were on their way to the 
docks. 

But now a strange silence was on her. The things 



166 


CHINESE RIVER 


which, while she dressed, she had planned to say to 
him seemed to elude her. Perhaps she was tired; per¬ 
haps, nursing her sentiments about him too long, her 
mind had sickened and rejected them; perhaps, on 
the other hand, she was defeated only by the knowl¬ 
edge of that haste which was on them. So little could 
one say in a few minutes. Yet it was as though a baf¬ 
fling paralysis had seized her. 

But was it only that? A few minutes earlier, when 
they stepped into the car, a queer absurdity had flashed 
upon her. . . . “He’s going away. Supposing it’s the 
very last ride I have with him?” 

She had tried to dismiss it. She told herself that 
she had, indeed. . . . “You little fool!” she had 
mocked herself. But, again it came—gigantically now! 

Still, it was nonsense. She was only tired and a little 
hysterical. She had been thinking about him all that 
day; there was a breaking-point, surely. She forced 
herself to a laugh. 

“I’m quiet!” she uttered in harsh staccato. “Just like 
me! When you’ve gone I’ll think of something to 
say.” 

And then, with that silence shattered, she could find 
the thought for him that might be more appropriate. 

“Danny, don’t be too long away!” 

She heard his relieved sigh; she felt the touch of 
his hand. 

“Thanks!” he murmured with a chuckle. “That’s 
music! I’ll hurry back just as soon as I’m through. 
I’ll take a ’plane if I can get one.” 



167 


“freedom is a man!” 

“Fine!” she told him gratefully; though, ridicu¬ 
lously, she must immediately seek to deceive herself 
again. 

“Pm thinking of the cabaret. It’ll seem strange there 
without you. And supposing someone starts a rum¬ 
pus?” 

He laughed. “Don’t worry!” he tried to reassure 
her. “You’ll find Nadya equal to any rumpus. She 
just loves a rough house. But I hadn’t overlooked it. 
Brennan’s promised to come in at nights and keep a 
very watchful eye on things. So has Carson.” 

“Thanks,” she whispered, though she knew it to be 
absurd. “Thanks very much.” 

But when again she lapsed into silence, she heard 
his sober challenge: 

“Look here, Jennie! Something’s on your mind.” 

She hesitated. Could she tell him? Even now it 
might not be too late. Yet again had come her pitying 
thought for him: 

“A whole week ... cut off from me . . . his 
mind . . . his work!” 

No, it must be her hurt, her suspense—hers only. 

She turned to him. 

“Perhaps!” she admitted, and gave him a rueful 
grin. But it served only as a cover for the glib evasion 
which was to follow it. 

“Danny,” she began, and it might possibly be the 
truth, “I’m rather worried about Mr. Lee.” 

“Poor devil, yes,” he murmured. “But what can 
one do for him! The cure’s in his own hands. Don’t 




168 


CHINESE RIVER 


think Pm scoffing, but missionary work is more a job 
for women, Pve always felt.” 

“Maybe! But I was hardly thinking of that. Danny, 
what shall I do if he asks me to go out with him 
again?” 

“Do? Why, you’ll go, of course.” 

And then he laughed uproariously. 

“Oh, my God! Is that all that’s worrying you?” he 
exclaimed. 

“People might gossip about it, if you’re away,” she 
retorted. 

At which he laughed the more. 

“Well, let ’em!” he thundered hugely. “Take him 
out, shake the melancholy out of him in this car, give 
him a good time. , . . And don’t forget to say ‘good¬ 
bye’ to him for me. I suppose he’ll be gone by the 
time I come back.” 

But he turned to her suddenly. His boisterous man¬ 
ner softened. He gripped her arm. 

“Thanks, Jennie,” he murmured softly. “I didn’t 
know you were thinking about it quite like that.” 

“Perhaps I wasn’t. Perhaps I was thinking only of 
myself,” she retorted laughingly. It might ease the 
ache of her pity for him. 

They reached the dock. They were threading their 
way between stacks of newly landed merchandise to the 
waiting ship. A noise of escaping steam was in their 
ears; of bare-ribbed, hurrying coolies barking their 
clipped, urgent monosyllables; of winches and gear 
and resounding decks and companions. . . . Speech 




“freedom is a man!” 


169 


would now be even more difficult than before. And as 
they reached the gangway he was looking anxiously 
at his watch. 

“Hardly time to take you on board,” he said. 

But perplexingly the ship was lingering beyond its 
scheduled time. Which set them grinningly congratu¬ 
lating themselves. Yet their joy in it was only a pre¬ 
tence, for the uncertainty of that protracted farewell 
could mock them, dispossessing the precious minutes 
of their worth. They could only squander the min¬ 
utes . . . grin again, fall silent, or give huge exag¬ 
geration to trivialities, things that were irrelevant. 

“When I come back, I’ll have that car overhauled,” 
he promised. 

“Fine!” she rejoined, and the sight of a coolie’s per¬ 
spiring neck held ridiculous fascination for her. 

Then, abruptly, that spell on them was broken. 
A little Japanese bo’s’n was calling “friends ashore” 
at the entrance to the saloon. There came the first 
warning blast from the siren. One could know anguish 
again, swift, stabbing fear. She ceased to smile. He 
threw down his cigarette, stamping out its glow as 
though he effaced a sacrilege. 

“Jennie, I’ll try and get a ’plane back.” 

“Yes, do!” 

And then that quick plea which had been torturing 
him an hour long: 

“Jennie, marry me!” 

Marry him! The immensity of it; and yet that ab¬ 
surd, chilling fear. . . . 




170 


CHINESE RIVER 


“He’s going! Only another minute. His smile 
just then! That look in his eyes. Supposing Pm see¬ 
ing these things for the last time?” 

“Marry you!” she heard herself desperately answer¬ 
ing. “Danny, I don’t know. But hurry back. I want 
to talk to you . . . about us . . . me . . . every¬ 
thing.” 

“Friends ashore!” The few visitors to the undis¬ 
tinguished passenger-cargo vessel were trooping down 
the gangway; the deck-hands were loosening its ropes; 
the little Japanese bo’s’n stood rigid at its head, un¬ 
smiling, impatient. 

Their hands met urgently; his eyes still pleaded. 

“You mean . . . you mean you’ll think of it?” he 
blurted. 

“Yes, Danny. But we must talk . . . talk.” 

And then his back was to her. He was aboard. She 
must step aside to avoid the gangway as it clattered 
to the quay. 

“Cheerio!” he cried from the rail. “God bless!” 

“Cheerio! And God bless you! Danny, take care 
of yourself. Hurry back!” 

Yet the fear on her! The terrible impotent sense of 
finality. This moment the last, maybe! 

“Danny, listen!” 

“What’s that? Yes, sure! With both ears.”. . . 
His receding voice! 

“Danny, listen! . . . Danny , I will!” 

But he did not hear. A great bellow from the ship’s 
siren obliterated it. 



“freedom is a man!” 


171 


XXIII 

He had been gone two days. 

To write to him would have been useless; a letter 
would not have reached him in time. But could she 
wire him? she had a dozen times asked herself. 

Yet, uttered so abruptly on a commercial-looking 
printed form, that phrase would surely seem preten¬ 
tious and ridiculous —1 will marry you! ... As im¬ 
possible to say it thus as to shout it to him across a 
crowded street. It needed his warm, physical pres¬ 
ence, his intimate nearness. Moreover, now that the 
pang of parting from him was over, one was begin¬ 
ning to think of him more normally. Yes, she might 
marry him—even now, and with no more than the ordi¬ 
nary day about her—but first must she talk. How she 
must talk! 

She busied herself wherever she could find oppor¬ 
tunity. The shroff and she made great “to-do” of 
besieging Hinty’s office and tidying his papers. They 
bought files for them. She and the amah attacked his 
bedroom, dismissing from it a score of old newspapers, 
a half-dozen pairs of shoes to be soled. In the early 
evening she took whisky-soda with Nadya, or watched 
her rehearsing some new solo-dance. “Sure, but 
doesn’t this place seem like a morgue without him!” 
Nadya would complain. There was also that daily 
encounter with John Granger Lee, the missionary. 

But he came to the cabaret rarely. Instead, he tele¬ 
phoned her from his hotel. “I wonder whether you’d 




172 


CHINESE RIVER 


care to take tea with me at the Strand,” he might say. 
So that meeting him had ceased to be casual} sober- 
ingly, it implied appointment, consent. While now 
came his news that he would remain in Tsingtao a 
week longer. 

He seemed fitter now, happier} his cheeks had filled, 
and the sea air and sunshine had given to his blond 
skin a light, golden tan. He seemed less haunted by 
his own thoughts. Only did his former strangeness 
return to him if he talked of England. But she had 
noticed something which puzzled her slightly. If she 
mentioned the cabaret he was silent, or changed the 
subject abruptly. 

One afternoon he swam with her. He swam power¬ 
fully, she discovered. It gave him a suggestion of physi¬ 
cal ruggedness which previously had been lacking. 
Long after she had tired and returned to the beach, 
he came bounding from the water to tease her be¬ 
cause she would not enter it again. She made him sit 
down, watching the play of his muscles while he 
dried his hair. 

“I didn’t know you could swim so well,” she com¬ 
plimented him. “What else can you do?” 

“Well, when I was twenty-one and in the Army, 
I rather fancied myself as a middle-weight boxer,” he 
answered. “Oh, and until I put my knee out I was 
fairly useful as a soccer centre-half.” 

Then, seeing her surprised musing, he laughed. 

“Why not?” he protested. “A man doesn’t have to 
be a mutt just because he’s a missionary. 



173 


“freedom is a man!” 

“Still, that’s the unfortunate impression one usu¬ 
ally creates,” he added a little ruefully. 

It was a healthful change from his usual conversa¬ 
tion, she reflected. Thinking to encourage it, she be¬ 
gan to tease him. 

“I shall have to find you a job at Hmty's —throw¬ 
ing out the drunks after midnight.” 

“I might enjoy throwing ’em out!” 

“Or I could get Nadya Skolnikova to bill you as an 
extra turn . . . ‘Battling Lee, the Fighting Parson,’ 
for instance!” 

Yet gradually his grin had died. 

“Look here! It’s not my business,” he retorted, “but 
your contact with that place puzzles me.” 

“Why?” 

He shook his head. 

“It’s not my business,” he reiterated. It seemed as 
though he would once more avoid the subject. 

But presently, after an unrehearsed reference to 
Hinty’s, he unexpectedly returned to it. 

“You seem to be happy there!” he exclaimed, and 
frowned. 

“Perhaps I am,” she answered, a little challengingly. 
And then, with her curiosity and resentment growing, 
she had uttered it. 

“It’s my bread-and-butter. It’s honest bread-and- 
butter. Why do you object to it?” 

“Bread-and-butter?” He echoed that phrase almost 
doubtingly. 

And then he murmured his strange apology. 





174 


CHINESE RIVER 


“I beg your pardon,” he said, and fell awkwardly 
silent. 

But she had not done with the subject. 

“I think I know what’s in your mind,” she said. 

She waited for his answer, but it did not come. He 
avoided her gaze. 

“You’re thinking of Hinty,” she continued. “Well, 
don’t get the wrong idea about him. Hinty is—well, 
Hinty’s made of better stuff than his surroundings 
suggest, perhaps. And you’d better understand him 
and me a little more thoroughly. Hinty’s my em¬ 
ployer-” 

He interrupted her. 

“You don’t have to say it,” he uttered. “I know 
what you are. Nothing, no one could ever persuade 
me differently.” His words fell like a lingering caress. 
“I think I know what Hinty is too. 

“Though it’s only you who could have made him 
that way,” came his strange, almost soliloquizing whis¬ 
per. 

“But, Jennie,” he continued, and surely he used 
her name for the first time, “when originally you went 
there, I imagine you felt less enthusiastic about that 
cabaret.” 

“It was a business proposition. It is still.” 

“Quite! You went there, not because it attracted 
you. Let’s say you needed a job. But you like it now; 
and it’s either because you’ve learned to tolerate it, 
or because of Hinty himself. Both, perhaps.” 

She shrugged her shoulders. 




“freedom is a man!” 


175 


“You may be right,” she admitted. “But why need 
I look back? Perhaps Pm better because of it. Per¬ 
haps it’s taught me to know myself. What’s to be 
learned by keeping a wall about one’s self? And the 
days pass; one changes. Why analyse myself if Pm 
content?” 

“Which is just the danger,” he retorted. “Mahomet 
gets to the mountain rarely. More often the mountain 
must come down to meet Mahomet. Sometimes it 
comes too far.” 

She smiled. 

“Mahomet is Hinty, I suppose, and I the moun¬ 
tain?” 

“Yes.” 

“And you think the mountain has toppled down to 
the valley and lost itself?” 

“No. But it could happen. Pity is often an ex¬ 
acting master.” 

“Pity! How do you know it’s pity? It might be 
more.” 

“I doubt it.” 

She was silent. She could not argue with him on 
that. As easily might she argue with herself . . . and 
fail. 

“Anyhow, I know Hinty’s purpose,” she said, evad¬ 
ing that issue. “There’s nothing cheap or ignoble 
in it.” 

“Quite,” he agreed. “I think I know it too. But 
Hinty’s purpose has its foundations in you, and you 
alone. Without you he falls down. He becomes 



176 


CHINESE RIVER 


merely the dirty-thumbed cabaret proprietor again.” 

She frowned, resenting that speech. Nevertheless, 
she must give it her long, searching thought. 

“Perhaps,” she whispered; and then . . . “No, he 
won’t fall down—whatever happens. He’ll go on. No 
one can stop him. Nothing!” 

And yet she paused again. 

“Please!” she begged unhappily. “Why must we 
discuss him so much? . . . Come on, Pve changed my 
mind! Give me a start, and Pll race you out to the 
raft.” 

But later, when they went from the beach to the 
Strand Hotel for tea, he made an oblique return to 
that subject. He began to question her about her 
earlier life in England; her home, her education, her 
employment with old Henderson. 

To her answers he gave his grave, nodding ap¬ 
proval; for familiar with that English scene, he saw 
the conventional respectability of her upbringing as 
clearly as he knew his own. Yet, often as she an¬ 
swered him, her smile was perilously near to tears. 
Which set him eventually abandoning that curiosity and 
apologizing to her. 

“Sorry! Perhaps I ought not to have reminded you 
of it. Yes, I guess you’re homesick.” 

“Who isn’t, sometimes?” she retorted, and now he 
saw her frank, unrestrained emotion. But she fought 
it down. She laughed. 

“Still, don’t class me with those dear old hypocrites 
who are always offering to give a year’s pay for the 



“freedom is a man!” 


177 


smell of a London subway,” she added. “Half of the 
time they don’t mean it.” 

He made no comment, but passed his empty tea-cup 
to her. She fancied, however, that she knew his mind 
about her. . . . 

“Yes, I’m puzzling him,” ran her thought. “And 
even more than before! The English respectability, 
the polite school, the church-going. Yet—China, 
Hinty's! He can’t quite reconcile them. Poor man! 
Even now he probably thinks I’m an adventuress.” 

And then he surprised her. 

“We need women of your type and education in the 
mission field,” he exclaimed. “Had you ever thought 
of it?” 

She stared her surprise, trying not to grin. 

“Why, no!” she answered at last. “I’m afraid I 
hadn’t. I’d always imagined that missionary women 
were—well, don’t misunderstand me, but a class some¬ 
what apart from the rest of us. . . . More courageous, 
more earnest, I mean.” 

He laughed. 

“You don’t have to spare my feelings,” he teased 
her. “You’d better say it . . . Blue-stockings! Man- 
haters! The sort of women who wear the wrong hats 
and elastic-sided boots. Yes, that’s the popular idea of 
’em, I suppose. 

“Still, don’t get us all wrong,” he continued gaily. 
“Perhaps I’m not a good advertisement for it, but 
mission work is probably just the reverse. It’s cheer¬ 
fulness, comradeship, putting happiness and laughter 





178 


CHINESE RIVER 


into people’s lives where none existed before. Which 
is just the important point which our critics fail to 
see. As for pushing religion down people’s throats, 
well, as I think I’ve said before, there’s no virtue in 
preaching the Sermon on the Mount to a man if you 
don’t first practise it. No, first must you feed his 
empty stomach, heal his sores, teach him to use his 
mind. ... Yes, I wish you could come to Chwan 
Hu and see our methods. You’d fall for them, I 
think.” 

“You are happy there?” 

Only for an instant did he pause; and then: 

“Yes, very! Why not?” 

She smiled encouragingly. “It must be very fas¬ 
cinating,” she answered non-committally. Yet she won¬ 
dered again, as she had wondered many times: Was he 
truly happy in the strange career which he had set 
himself, or did he merely bludgeon himself into it? 

But now he was elaborating his theme. 

“We’re not all missionaries in the strict sense, you 
know. I mean, we’re not all engaged in teaching re¬ 
ligion. In fact, the majority of my people are lay¬ 
men . . . doctors, bacteriologists, teachers, and so on. 
They’ve no contact with the evangelical side what¬ 
ever. In fact, if you saw the way some of ’em try to 
dodge even a Sunday morning service, you’d say they 
were bigger heathen than the Chinese. . . . Which 
reminds me! I’ve just had a letter from Chwan Hu. 
My personal secretary has run away and married an 
American naval bfficer, I hear. What about it?” 



179 


“freedom is a man!” 

That question did not take her entirely by surprise. 
She laughed, professing to misunderstand it. 

“Well, I suppose you’ll have to forgive the poor 
girl and send her a wedding-present,” she answered. 

“But don’t your people appear to be rather lax?” 
she added with genuine curiosity. “I’d always imag¬ 
ined that even if they aren’t all actual missionaries, 
they have to be—well, of the missionary type.” 

The missionary type! He seemed to frown at that 
phrase. 

“Well, yes,” he admitted. “They have, at least, to 
declare themselves as practising Christians. And, of 
course, in the case of the higher-paid people, they have 
to be approved from that point of view by our head¬ 
quarters. 

“Still, we’re all practising Christians, I hope,” he 
sought to remind her, “whether we’re working in the 
mission field or selling typewriters. Tell me that you 
or the average person doesn’t feel that way about it, 
and I won’t believe you.” 

She smiled—non-committally again. How did one 
answer him? And now she could be almost sure of it! 

. . . “He’s apologizing for it,” came her thought. 
“Afraid to sound too unmanly! Just like a silly school¬ 
boy, ashamed of too much respectability.” 

He was leaning across the table suddenly. 

“Look here!” he challenged her. “There’s a vacancy 
at Chwan Hu, I said—for someone who’ll act as my 
personal secretary. I’m asking you. Why not take it? 
If you want it, it’s yours. And don’t think I’m offering 






180 


CHINESE RIVER 


it to you merely because we’re friends. You’re edu¬ 
cated, experienced in office routine; it’s a job you’re 
fitted for-” 

Now, however, her answer was ready for him. 

“It’s kind of you,” she interrupted him gently. “But 
Chwan Hu’s rather a long way off—a little too far. 
And what about your superiors—your headquarters— 
the dear people who’d sit in judgment on my respecta¬ 
bility?” 

“They’d accept my own opinion of you. And why 
not?” he added almost fiercely. 

But she shook her head. 

“No!” she said firmly. It’s kind of you, but I’m 
staying here. . . . Come, let’s go. I ought to be 
back.” 

He got obediently to his feet. Nevertheless, he 
paled. 

“I can’t understand you,” he protested, as they 
walked to the car. “What exactly is your purpose in 
life? It puzzles me.” 

“It need not!” she retorted; and now he saw that he 
had angered her. “One doesn’t necessarily have a pur¬ 
pose. However, if you insist on my having one, it’s 
probably this—and I’ll use your own words!—‘Cheer¬ 
fulness, comradeship, putting happiness and laughter 
into people’s lives where none existed before,’ I think 
you said. I believe I’m doing it now.” 

“With Hinty?” 

“Yes, with Hinty.” 

But he had not yet done with her. 






181 


“freedom is a man!” 

“Hinty is only one man,” he retorted grimly. “Sup¬ 
posing he fails you?” 

“Fails me?” 

Once more as she dwelt in that strange, bitter-sweet 
memory of her farewell to Hinty, there came that 
absurd, unreasoning fear. “Danny, hurry back!” She 
wanted to cry it aloud. 

But the missionary heard only her laughter. 

“We’re talking of his happiness, not mine,” she re¬ 
torted gaily. “If he fails me—well, we’ll congratu¬ 
late him, of course. The patient doesn’t usually fail 
his doctor until he’s better!” 

XXIV 

Three days had passed. There came to her at break¬ 
fast time Hinty’s second and lengthy telegram. His 
business with his solicitors was ended, he said. More¬ 
over, they now held the opinion that the threatened 
law-suit might be avoided, and with not too great an 
expense to himself. But what reassured her the most 
was the news that he was leaving Shanghai immedi¬ 
ately. She could suddenly laugh at her fears. He 
would now be on his way. On that next night she would 
be seeing him. 

She gave that news to the head boy, to the amah y 
to the chauffeur who would take her to meet him at 
the docks. Everything must be ready for him. . . . 
And then, the door closing behind them both, the 
privacy, the long, long talk! 




182 


CHINESE RIVER 


“No, not tomorrow night,” she answered John 
Granger Lee over the telephone. “Danny will be 
back.” 

And she flourished Hinty’s telegram in corrobora¬ 
tion as she said it. 

But she had to listen to Lee, nevertheless. They 
had not met since they swam together at the Strand 
beach, he reminded her. If he had offended her then, 
he was sorry. 

“And tomorrow night? Well, it’s thirty-six hours 
away!” he protested. 

She would not commit herself. She had work to do 
that day, she pleaded. She would telephone him when 
she was less busy. At which, forgetting him, she sought 
the head boy again. Had Master’s winter suits come 
back from the cleaners? she wanted to know. 

But, as her excitement subsided, she thought of Lee 
again, reproaching herself for having been too curt 
with him. And if ever she had vaguely feared him, 
she might now fortify herself with the thought that 
it was probably the last occasion on which she would 
have to be alone with him again. Tomorrow she would 
dismiss him from her fears with the laugh that mingled 
with Hinty’s. 

Next day she telephoned him. She would see him 
that morning, she said. 

“Though I ought to be back here for tiffin,” she 
added. 

Yet the stipulation seemed niggardly, cowardly per¬ 
haps j and her afternoon was free, she knew. So that, 



“freedom is a man!” 


183 


when inevitably he suggested that she took tiffin with 
him, she surprised him with her reaction. 

“Well, as long as Pm back by early evening, it 
doesn’t matter,” she answered. “Let’s eat out in the 
hills. It will be cooler there. I’ll pack a hamper.” 

She smiled at his delighted exclamation: “A whole 
day out in the hills! Why, that’s great!” . . . But 
he had probably overlooked something. If they went 
to the hills, Hinty’s chauffeur would be with them 
from the time they started until the moment in which 
they said farewell. . . . Hinty’s chauffeur! That 
propinquity could seem like the sure, safe shield of 
Hinty himself. 

She dressed j she ordered the car; she went to see if 
the “boy” had finished packing the luncheon hamper. 
Such was her gaiety at the thought of Hinty’s return 
that she ordered the “boy” to pack a bottle of cham¬ 
pagne also. And if Lee did not care to share it with 
her, it would not matter. She would drink it, never¬ 
theless. . . . Danny returning at eleven that night! A 
dozen or so short hours! 

When all was ready, she wrote a note for the “boy” 
to give to Nadya Skolnikova. 

Sorry not to be seeing you this afternoon. Am off to 
the hills with my missionary . 

Affectionately, J . 

Nevertheless, it was a pity that she could not first 
have had a chat with Nadya. A laugh and a jest at 
his expense would have made that trip with Lee sound 




184 


CHINESE RIVER 


a little more logical. And perhaps that note should 
have included some reference to Hinty’s homecom¬ 
ing. But the “boy” had borne it away, and already 
she was ten minutes late. 

Singing to herself, she hurried downstairs. 

XXV 

They spread their meal on a smooth flat rock. A 
tree shaded them, jutting out at an acute angle from 
the craggy hillside in which the rock was set. Only 
a few yards away a tiny cascade of water tumbled 
musically down to an inky pool, the vegetation lush 
and green about it. 

Lee was now perching himself on the edge of the 
rock and jovially dismissing the Chinese chauffeur who 
had helped him to carry the hamper. 

“Pm hungry!” he cried. “Gosh! And I could drink 
the sea dry!” 

He surprised her by the eager way in which he 
uncorked the champagne. “Splendid! Pd been fear¬ 
ing you’d bring me ginger-ale!” he exclaimed. 

But this was not the only thing in which he had 
surprised her. He had surprised her a whole morning 
long ... his gaiety, his laughter, his noisy, rollicking 
exhortations to the chauffeur as the car had soared the 
steep hills j but, more than that—his indifference to 
her almost! Even her frequent references to Hinty’s 
return had not dismayed him. “Great!” he had re¬ 
joined to one of them. “We must take the old boy out 
and fete him!” 




185 


“freedom is a man!” 

What new thing was in his mind? she wondered. 

They finished their meal. The watchful chauffeur 
clambered up to them from the road below; then, 
repacking the hamper, he left them and returned to 
the car, there to eat the native food which was more 
to his taste. 

“Well, that’s that! And thanks for a marvellous 
tiffin!” Lee exclaimed. He stretched himself full- 
length across the rock and offered her a cigarette. 
“Great!” he sighed contentedly, and tossed his spent 
match-stick to a tiny lizard darting on the sunlit patch 
of earth beneath them. 

“But you’re quiet!” he added suddenly, and gave 
her his teasing grin. 

She could not deny it. Silently she had been won¬ 
dering about him again. A thought had just struck 
her. . . . He was like a character in some work of fic¬ 
tion fashioned by an inexpert and groping amateur; 
inconsistent, illogical, elusive, and vague always. She 
recalled her first meeting with him at Hinty's, the way 
he seemed to shrink from the place, and yet again his 
strange, fevered hunger for it. She recalled that con¬ 
fession of his hopeless marriage—there had almost 
been hate in his heart then; she recalled the many and 
contradictory moods which he had given to the thought 
of returning to Chwan Hu. More vividly she recalled 
his frequent contempt for Hinty. ... “A dirty- 
thumbed cabaret proprietor.” . . . or . . . “Suppos¬ 
ing he fails you?” 

And yet? . . . “We must take the old boy out and 
fete him!” 





186 


CHINESE RIVER 


And now he lay there, a cigarette poised in his 
fingers, his eyes careless and dancing, his firm white 
teeth exposed in a grin that surely mocked her. . . . 
“In four days’ time Pm saying good-bye to you,” he 
had an hour ago said. But the utterance had been 
casual, contemptuous almost; it made her feel like a 
small and unconsidered schoolgirl. 

“Quiet?” she echoed now. “I hadn’t noticed it. Oh, 
but perhaps I was. I’d been thinking of Hinty . . . 
Danny.” 

It was not true, nevertheless she thrust it at him 
like a swift, goading retaliation. . . . Did he deserve 
it? She could not say. But contentedly she had set 
out that morning with her ideas about him all neatly 
sorted and docketed; while now he could mock that 
self-satisfaction with every careless grin he gave her. 
It was perhaps unreasoning, but, woman-like, she must 
resent it. 

He was answering her. 

“Good!” he commented brightly. “But why frown 
about him?” 

Unwittingly he had added to that humiliation. 

She gazed away from him, seeking to get a better 
grasp of herself. Perhaps her only trouble was that 
the midday sun had given her a headache. She must 
try not to be so absurdly petulant with him. But she 
had to utter it. 

“You’re an enigma!” she said. “Directly I get my 
mind made up about you, you alter it for me.” 

He laughed, settling himself more comfortably on 



187 


“freedom is a man!” 

his back. He clasped his hands behind his head; lazily 
he drew up his knees. 

“Do I? But it’s great here,” he teased. “I can lie 
here and imagine myself only an inch beneath the sky. 
The champagne, perhaps, but I haven’t felt so fit and 
contented in years. 

“Oh, but Pm forgetting!” he continued with a 
chuckle. “Pm an enigma. I alter your mind for you. 
. . . Tell me how.” 

Challenged thus, and with that unexpected belated¬ 
ness of his reply giving such emphasis to his apparent 
unconcern, she was regretting her utterance. Embar¬ 
rassed and angry with herself, she forced herself to a 
laugh. She would abandon that unequal struggle; she 
would wrestle with him no more. 

“Sorry!” she retorted disarmingly. “But Pm trying 
to keep awake, and—well, in this heat, one subject’s 
as good as another, I suppose. . . . But you seem very 
cheerful today; almost a different person.” 

“Why not? Life is good today.” 

And then his grin sobered for a moment. 

“I understand!” he rejoined. “I haven’t always 
laughed—have I? I haven’t always lain on my back 
and burbled to the heavens as Pm doing now. Well, 
that was yesterday. Forget it! I was sick and sorry 
for myself, I guess. Pd come down from Chwan Hu 
convalescing from several years’ darned hard work— 
yes, and a bad dose of fever. If I’ve shown you a few 
skeletons in the cupboard, forgive me. It won’t hap¬ 
pen again. The cupboard’s locked. Thank the Tsingtao 




188 


CHINESE RIVER 


air, the idling, thank you! As you see me now, Pm 
remaining. Yes, Pm staying put!” 

She looked at him. His gaze still held the leafy 
tree above them, indifferent to her, seemingly, even 
now. Yet she could only half believe him. 

“Is that true?” she exclaimed. “I mean, are you 
really happy?” 

He puffed at his cigarette. 

“Csesar has spoken,” he answered. “As you see me 
now, I am! And Pm staying put. For the rest of 
my sick-leave here, Pm merely a loafing malingerer. 
. . . Congratulate me, Brutus!” 

“I will!” she answered, and for the first time she 
could give him a smile that was spontaneous. 

They lapsed into silence for a while. She sat listen¬ 
ing to the tiny waterfall. The shade of the tree crept 
down the rocky hillside, banishing the darting liz¬ 
ards. It deepened. A bird took wing beneath the 
declining heat. She stretched her legs, feeling some¬ 
thing of his own contentment. 

Then, dreamily, he began to talk of Chwan Hu. 
Next year, with the funds which his headquarters had 
allotted to him, he would enlarge the mission’s hospi¬ 
tal, he said. If more teachers were forthcoming 
from England, he would extend the activities of the 
school. 

“And if I’ve any time to spare, Pm going to amuse 
myself by cleaning the chapel organ. Imagine it if I 
can’t put it together again!” he jested. 

“Then you are going to be happy there?” she could 



189 


“freedom is a man!” 

not resist asking. At which he gave her noisy, good- 
humoured retort: 

“Good heavens, yes! Why not?” 

Silence again! She picked up a slim volume of verse 
and began to read it. She put it down again. Yet no 
longer was she disconcerted. She wanted only to look 
at him, to study him anew. Yes, he was happy. She 
could now believe it. 

And then, whisperingly, humbly almost, she put that 
sudden question to him: 

“What is happiness?” 

He did not answer for a moment. Perhaps he was 
asleep. But she saw at last the lazy movement of his 
arm.. He sat up, and for the first time turned to her. 

“Huh!” he breathed. “This is where Pm going to 
sound like a schoolgirl’s essay. Happiness? Well, it 
depends on what one is . . . how one’s made. For 
instance, consider the insect that’s just taken a bite at 
my ankle. If it hasn’t indigestion, I’ll say it’s happy!” 

“What’s your own brand of happiness?” she per¬ 
severed. 

“It might not interest you,” he retorted laughingly. 
“Still here goes! I imagine it’s merely work, preoc¬ 
cupation—and a hundred per cent of those things. 

“Yet it’s something more than that,” he added, and 
now he became grave. He looked into her eyes. “Work 
and preoccupation are not enough. In themselves they 
need not bring us any greater reward than bread and 
butter j sometimes even we can hate them. No, if we 
are to kill the inherent unhappiness that’s in all of us, 




190 


CHINESE RIVER 


our work must be for the happiness of others, of all . 
We must see flowers growing where there were none 
before. . . . And now I do sound like the schoolgirl’s 
essay!” 

“No,” she said. “Go on. And that is how you feel 
about yourself, your work at Chwan Hu?” 

“I do,” he assured her. “And forget all else Pve 
said about it. I can consider myself avenged for the 
knocks Pve had every time I save someone else from 
a knock. And think of the credit account Pm amassing. 
Up in Chwan Hu I can avenge myself a hundred times 
a day if I want to.” 

“And that’s your happiness? Just that?” 

“Just that! It’s enough. . . . And you? What about 
yours?” 

She did not answer. At which he chuckled. 

“Well, Pm not going to preach!” he exclaimed. 
“Each of us finds happiness in his own way. Still, if 
one day I see you arriving at Chwan Hu with your 
luggage, I shall not be surprised.” 

“Chwan Hu!” . . . She had not expected that 
speech. She affected to be amused. “So you’re still 
looking for that pretty little private secretary? Judg¬ 
ing by your high spirits this morning, you’d found her, 
Pd been imagining.” 

He was unperturbed. 

“I shall find her!” he retorted gaily. “Shanghai is 
full of private secretaries. And I’ll make a point of 
getting the prettiest one I can see. 

“But I wasn’t thinking of it exactly like that,” he 



191 


“freedom is a man!” 

continued more gravely. “If you came, it wouldn’t 
be for bread-and-butter, I fancy. Still, don’t call it 
impossible.” 

She paled. She felt herself trembling. 

“Why not?” she stammered. 

“You’d come,” he answered slowly, “only because 
of something in yourself . . . the wisdom in you, the 
loveliness. Yes, one of these days you’ll start aveng¬ 
ing Life’s knocks too . . . giving . . . creating . . . 
not for one person, but hundreds . . . thousands . . . 
humanity itself. 

“God, and how you could do it!” came then his 
passionate cry. 

She could not speak j she could only look at him, 
dismayed, trembling still, yet acknowledging neverthe¬ 
less the strange, thrilling flattery of that moment. Then, 
while she was groping for words, he banished it all. He 
was getting up, laughing, teasing her again. 

“Come! Don’t look so solemn about it. Let’s go 
down to the car and make some tea.” 

He took her hands. Unresisting, she let him pull 
her to her feet. 

“Yes, tea,” she echoed mechanically. 

“But why do you say all this?” she challenged him 
unhappily. “You’re thinking of Danny again. I know 
it. . . . But I tell you, I can’t! I can’t leave him. 
It may be selfish, but I don’t even want to.” 

Smilingly he was trying to calm her. 

“Hush! Hush!” he uttered. “You don’t have to.” 

He still gripped her hands. He drew them down 




192 


CHINESE RIVER 


to her sides, holding them there. He was so near to 
her that she must feel his warm breath. His gaze 
became intimate with her neck, her white shoulders, 
the shadowed cleft of her heaving breasts. 

“No, you don’t have to,” came his whispered echo. 
“Because you’ve put all your eggs into one basket, 
you don’t necessarily have to drop and smash ’em. I 
don’t suppose you will. I’m only saying that if he 
failed you, it wouldn’t be your loss; it would be your 
gain. You’d go to greater happiness . . . wider . . . 
immense . . . the hundreds and thousands responding 
to you, blessing your name. They’d see you as I see 
you . . . lovely . . . perfect. They’d worship you.” 

Then, unexpectedly, and defeating her protest, he 
released her. That intensity in him was done. He 
laughed again. He was no more than a lean, sun- 
bronzed giant, demanding impatiently his tea. 

“Come on!” he cried. “Last man’s lousy.” 

“And first man’s too quick for his bath!” she ut¬ 
tered, and laughed with him. 

But she could remember those things—the fever in 
his voice, his burning, passionate gaze. He had almost 
kissed her, surely. She readjusted her slipping shoul¬ 
der-straps. 


XXVI 

Their tea was finished. It was almost five o’clock. 
She began to murmur of returning to Tsingtao. 

“No great hurry,” she added politely. “But Danny 



193 


“freedom is a man!” 

doesn’t trust this car too much. It ought to be over¬ 
hauled.” 

He was lighting a cigarette. 

“Don’t worry,” he answered. “We could almost roll 
home. It’s downhill practically all the way. And 
your chauffeur looks competent. . . . Let’s have a 
peep at that temple we were planning to see. It’s only 
a couple of li farther on.” 

She demurred. Yet she reminded herself—it was 
her last day with him. And the chauffeur, who had 
overheard her anxiety about the car’s condition, was 
now volubly reassuring her. 

“Very well,” she jested. “But if you two men don’t 
get me home by nightfall, I’m a ruined woman.” 

They explored the temple, chatting over its peculari- 
ties with its guardian priest. The sun began to slant, 
bringing cool mysterious dignity to its tree-held court¬ 
yard. Forgetting her desire to return, she let the 
priest burn joss-sticks for her, and watched him while, 
taking up a pair of strikers, he sat before a huge bell, 
flogging it into great booming resonance. And John 
Granger Lee’s voice was ever echoing in the gloom 
. . . mocking, scathing, very subtly soothing her with 
its remote flattery. 

“Yes, fascinating!” he echoed. “But it’s no longer 
China, no longer the people. The temples are decay¬ 
ing, the gods are only museum pieces; China is too 
busy exploring the new civilization we’ve shown it. 
Yes, no more the old gods; just the guns! 

“But they’ll be saved,” she heard his tense whisper. 





194 


CHINESE RIVER 


“Something better than science or politics . . . hearts 
. . . thoughts . . . example. The man who ran 
from a genuine smile is not yet born. 

One might not necessarily believe it, but it could 
exalt him momentarily; lift him beyond her doubt. 

The shadows lengthened. 

XXVII 

When at last they left there, it was almost dusk. 
The chauffeur, sitting at the wheel of the car, was 
testing its headlights. The countryside that had looked 
so intimate during the blazing sun-drenched day now 
seemed aloof and apart from them. Shapes faded and 
were lost; the sunset fled from the mountain-tops, 
and left them grey, jagged, threatening. Instinctively 
as she entered the car, she groped under its seat for a 
rug. 

They were riding on, the chauffeur alert and cau¬ 
tious at every bend of the narrow, winding road. Tree- 
trunks looming white and surprised in the glare of the 
headlights gave black cavernous quality to the deep¬ 
ening gloom beyond them. 

“He’s a smart driver,” she heard Lee’s voice, but 
it did not reassure her. Absurdly now her mood was 
guilty and afraid. Before she could smile again, she 
must see the lights of Tsingtao. 

“It’s cold up here,” she retorted. She drew the rug 
closer about her knees. 

And then, while they were negotiating one of the 



“freedom is a man!” 


195 


many difficult turns to be encountered on the road, 
her unreasoning fears were brought to fever pitch. The 
car had halted. 

The chauffeur turned for a moment and looked at 
them. His grin spoke reassurance. He pressed the self¬ 
starter ; gaining no response from it but undismayed, 
he bent to examine the petrol-gauge. 

“Petrol good! No worry!” he explained. Grinning 
still, he slipped from his seat and went to lift the bon¬ 
net. 

“Perhaps carburettor,” he shouted to them. “Soon 
fix!” 

“That sounds more like it,” came Lee’s comment to 
Jennie. “I’ll go and help him. It’s only a ten minutes’ 
job.” 

But he had to stay and subdue her fierce doubt. 

“You’re sure?” she demanded. 

“Why, of course. Either it’s carburettor trouble or 
something’s worked loose. Don’t worry! We’ve a 
whole evening. Hinty’s boat isn’t due in until eleven.” 

“But . . . Nadya!” she protested, and an icy fear 
was on her. 

She recovered herself, however; answering his sur¬ 
prised inquiry. 

“Who’s Nadya?” she echoed. “Oh, no one! Just 
the number-one hostess at the cabaret. But I left a 
note for her. She’s expecting me back to dinner. She’ll 
be worried about me. . . . These roads, I mean. This 
place! . . . Yes, go and help him. Hurry!” 

He went, whistling loudly for her benefit. Because 




196 


CHINESE RIVER 


of her thin dress and the rapidly falling temperature, 
she shut the door behind him. But also it shut her 
out from what was happening. She grew frightened 
again. 

After ten minutes, he returned for a moment. 

“Can’t see anything alarming,” he informed her. 
“So it’s sure to be the carburettor. But it’s slow work. 
The fool doesn’t carry an electric torch.” 

He disappeared once more. Momentarily she was 
relieved. But—Nadya! She ought to have waited for 
Nadya, talked to her about him . . . laughed . . . 
made it seem trivial and ridiculous. And the minutes 
flying by! There would hardly be time to change, to 
compose herself. But again Nadya! Nadya’s thoughts 
about her. . . . “Leaving everything to the last, im¬ 
perilling his happiness.” 

In her anger she leaned over to the wheel, making 
fierce summons to Lee with the electric horn. 

He returned, grinning ruefully. 

“Sorry! I know how you feel! ” he exclaimed. “Still, 
he’s doing his best. 

“But I think I ought to tell you,” he added. “It’s 
not the carburettor. I fancy we’re ditched. We shall 
have to get another car from Tsingtao . . . but how?” 

He grinned again. 

“I guess you hate me,” came his contrition. “Yes, 
it was my fault . . . fooling about at that temple 
when we might have been half-way home. 

“But look here!” he tried to console her. “The 
chief thing is to see that Hinty has some sort of ex¬ 
planation. Even if we can’t get another car in time, 




“freedom is a man!” 


197 


perhaps we can get a message through to the cabaret 
. . . ask someone to meet him and explain.” 

“And how do we do it?” she challenged him. “This 
is China . . . the mountains . . . the nearest tele¬ 
phone is probably a dozen miles away.” 

She called the chauffeur. He, answering with that 
evasive volubility which the Oriental must ever employ 
to cover his loss of “face”, was at last prevailed upon to 
confirm her doubt. The nearest telephone was at a 
German sanatorium eighteen miles away, he admitted. 

“Very well. You’ll have to go to Laushan,” Lee 
was now telling him. “Yes, walk!” 

But he saw that sudden look of terror on the chauf¬ 
feur’s face. He retracted that speech. 

“No,” he murmured to Jennie. “He’d never do it. 
He’s a townsman, afraid of the dark and the devils. 
He’d sooner let me kill him! . . . I’ll go myself. 
I’ll make for that sanatorium. Perhaps they’ll lend 
me a car.” 

She looked at her watch. . . . Eighteen miles! And 
on the dark mountain roads! By the time that Lee 
had reached the sanatorium Hinty would have long 
since returned. But a telephone message would at 
least reassure him. 

“Do you think you could find your way?” she asked. 

He laughed. 

“I don’t know, but I’ll have a darned good try. 
Provided I can stumble on an occasional village and 
make sense of the local brand of Chinese it ought to 
be fairly easy.” 

But now she shook her head. Eighteen miles—she 



198 


CHINESE RIVER 


could not ask him. And there was all the suspense of 
the weary hours intervening. 

“It’s too far,” she said. “It would be breakfast-time 
before you got there.” 

“Nonsense!” he lied cheerfully. “A steady three 
miles an hour should get me there by four at the latest.” 

He could not convince her, however. 

“No,” she decided. “We’ll stay here till daybreak. 
Perhaps then you’ll be able to see what’s the matter 
with this thing, and repair it on the spot.” 

“Very well. But I’m not giving up,” he countered. 
“I’m getting back to that engine. I’ll keep this fellow 
busy a while. With an ounce of luck we’ll be on our 
way yet.” 

She shrugged her shoulders. 

“There’s no such thing as an ounce of luck,” she re¬ 
torted dully. “Luck’s either right with you or all 
against you. . . . Oh, well!” 

XXVIII 

They had long since ceased to talk. They sat in op¬ 
posite corners of the car, while the diminutive chauf¬ 
feur lay stretched on the seats before them. He snored. 

Eventually she fancied that Lee slept, too. She 
could not resent it, or any longer be angry with him. 
He and the Chinese had laboured over the car for 
nearly three hours. And she could still muse upon 
his last utterance to her. “The dawn will wake us. 
Try to sleep,” he had said, and tucking the car’s only 



199 


“freedom is a man!” 

rug more warmly about her, had moved away to his 
own corner. Just that, not even the touch of his hand 
on her own. She must respect him for it. 

Yet did it matter any longer? Three-thirty! Hinty! 
Nadya there! The minutes gnawing at their faith, one 
by one. 

Day broke at last—a swift, red dawn that set the 
outcrops of the scarred mountains glowing angrily— 
at which, springing from sleep, Lee roused the chauf¬ 
feur almost rudely. But she restrained him. 

“It doesn’t matter,” she uttered. “He’ll be hungry. 
Perhaps there are some sandwiches in that hamper.” 

“He’ll eat when we’ve got this car going,” he re¬ 
torted. “Why didn’t the fool bring a torch?” 

She would not argue with him. Slowly she took 
from the hamper a tea-kettle and went in search of 
water. She found a stream at last, rippling over a peb¬ 
bly bed. She filled the kettle. She bathed her face 
and hands. But she did not hurry back. She leaned 
against a rock, gazing down to the misty valleys where 
the darkness still lingered. She hoped that Hinty slept. 
But no! Better that he was setting out fiercely in 
search of her. Better his doubt of her than his resigna¬ 
tion. 

When she returned she saw Lee and the Chinese 
standing idly. 

“It’s the distributor—a garage job!” Lee announced 
tragically. “Nothing for it now except to find a tele¬ 
phone and get help. 

“But perhaps it’s coming.” He tried to reassure 





200 


CHINESE RIVER 


her. “Hinty will be hiring a car and looking for us, I 
fancy.” 

“What makes you think so?” 

He stared at her for a moment. Her casual man¬ 
ner puzzled him. 

“Well, ask yourself! ” he retorted. “If I know Hinty 
correctly he’ll be mobilizing the whole Tsingtao police 
force as well. 

“Yes, and with a very special gun in his hand for 
John Granger Lee!” he concluded with mock distress. 

But she surprised him again. 

“I wonder!” was all she said, and, shrugging her 
shoulders strangely, turned away from him. 

There was some food remaining in the hamper 
from their yesterday’s tiffin. But they did not eat it. 
They presented it to the Chinese, yet advising him to 
save it for his midday meal. Then, over cups of milk¬ 
less tea, they discussed their plans, Lee reverting to 
his opinion that Hinty would look for them, perhaps 
bringing a search-party. 

“Nevertheless,” he added, “we’re somewhat off the 
beaten track here. We ought to make for Laushan, 
where he’s more likely to look for us. If he hasn’t 
found us by then, we can ’phone him.” 

She agreed. But the chauffeur might better remain 
with the car, she said, until at Laushan they could 
telephone Hinty and let him send a breakdown lorry 
to it. Moreover, if they and the chauffeur separated, 
it would double their chances of getting into touch 
with Hinty. The chauffeur’s plight might attract the 




201 


“freedom is a man!” 

notice of a passing military service-wagon, for in¬ 
stance, or some adventurous motor-tourist returning 
from the interior. 

Having told him what to do in such a contingency 
and assured herself that he knew where to find drinking- 
water, Jennie gave him some money and they set out 
on their eighteen miles’ journey. 

“But take it quietly,” Lee warned her as he glanced 
at her flimsy shoes. “These are tough roads, and a 
Ousted’ ankle would just about ruin us.” 

They tramped on, the cool morning air of the moun¬ 
tains invigorating them; but, as the day advanced, 
they had perforce to go more slowly. The sun blazed 
down3 the heat rose up from the hard, stony road; at 
every stream or spring they must halt to bathe their 
feet. 

When they had covered about seven miles, they 
rejoiced to find a tiny village. The peasants fed them 
and refreshed them with tea, but when Lee inquired 
the possibility of getting a conveyance to Laushan, 
their simple hosts disappointed them. Apologetically 
they offered them more tea, they gave them two stout 
sticks to aid their feet. But a conveyance! The rich¬ 
est man of them possessed only a wheelbarrow. 

They trudged on, some little naked children ac¬ 
companying them for a while. Which tempted Jen¬ 
nie’s smile at Lee’s boisterous jests about them. 

“Put your hat on3 you’ll get sunstroke!” he cried 
in English to the eldest of them. 

But the children eventually left them. Lee fell 




202 


CHINESE RIVER 


silent. If they talked again, they could only talk of 
Hinty, it seemed. 

Then at noon, and with only a few more miles of 
that journey accomplished, the temperature began 
swiftly to dropj there was a sudden breeze at their 
backs. Remembering the fiery sunrise, Jennie looked 
behind her and saw the mountains black with storm. 
There came the distant roll of thunder. 

“Well,” Lee exclaimed, as he screwed up his eyes 
against the newly swirling dust, “a break in the heat 
won’t come amiss. These mountain storms rarely last 
long, fortunately.” 

The first raindrop flopped to the dust like a huge 
coin. A few seconds more, and the tropical cloudburst 
had overtaken them. Almost in an instant they were 
wet to the skin. 

He took her arm as he saw her wince beneath the 
terrifying lightning. 

“What do we do?” he asked cheerfully. “Do we 
take shelter, or do we press on dutifully to the—er— 
court of inquiry?” 

“Just as you like,” she answered. But suddenly 
she turned to him angrily. 

“If you must talk of Danny, why make me sound 
like a guilty schoolgirl?” she demanded. “I lived 
before I met him; I’ll live again. . . .” 

But she checked herself. She was betraying her 
own absurd reasoning. 

“I’m sorry,” she said contritely. “I’m behaving and 
thinking like a little fool. Let’s find shelter. . . . 




203 


“freedom is a man!” 

But, please! We’re not worrying about Danny. He 
doesn’t think that way about me—or about you, for 
that matter. And if there’s any explanation owing to 
him, it’s my responsibility, not yours. 

“But I don’t have to explain,” she added, and for 
an instant her eyes held challenge again. 

He made no comment on that speech. He looked 
down at himself, grinning at the way his thin, wet 
trousers clung comically to his legs. 

“I think I see a temple ... up on that hill in those 
trees,” he exclaimed. “Rather a stiff climb, but it might 
be worth it.” 

They left the road and began that ascent, she slip¬ 
ping or stumbling frequently, yet with ever his strong 
arm to help her. Reaching the temple they proclaimed 
their disappointment, however. There was no priest to 
welcome them. It was deserted and neglected, its in¬ 
ner walls defaced with anti-Japanese obscenities with 
which a passing band of soldiers had amused them¬ 
selves. It stank foully of the bats which infested its 
roof. Moreover it consisted only of a long single cham¬ 
ber whose front was open to the weather. But behind 
a pedestalled row of painted gods there would be shel¬ 
ter at least from the driving rain. They went there 
and looked about them. In a corner lay some dry 
brushwood, brought there probably by a wanderer who 
had used the place for a night’s refuge. There was also 
the circular pile of ashes where the wanderer had made 
his fire, a number of half-burned lengths of tree- 
branches protruding from it. 




204 


CHINESE RIVER 


Lee was delightedly grinning at this discovery. 

“I think so!” he exclaimed cryptically. “But how 
are we going to do it? There’s no paper, and I guess 
my matches are ruined.” 

She opened her bag, exploring its contents. There 
was a petrol-lighter, which might have gone dry 5 there 
was a long letter from her father, a few receipts, and 
bills. There was also one of Hinty’s photographs. 

“Help yourself!” she now encouraged him. “If 
the worst comes to the worst, the photograph will have 
to go too!” 

He returned it to her, however. 

“Hinty’s too tough!” he teased her. Kneeling down, 
he expertly crumpled the papers, covering them lightly 
with the brushwood. Then he took up the petrol- 
lighter, shaking it vigorously. 

“Hope hard!” he begged her laughingly. At his 
seventh attempt, he produced a flame. In a few 
minutes he stood grinning at her across a cheerful 
fire. 

“If we had a kettle of water we’d have something 
to drink; that’s if we had some tea,” he jested. 

But he looked at her suddenly. Beneath her wet 
clothes she was shivering. 

He went out to the temple’s broken steps for a 
moment, seeking to scan the sky. The tall surround¬ 
ing trees defeated him, however, but the fury of the 
storm seemed unabated. He returned, shaking his 
head. 

“We may be here for some time,” he began, “and 



205 


“freedom is a man!” 

this fire won’t last too long. Still, there ought to be 
a fair amount of wood under those trees that the 
rain hasn’t yet touched. I’ll go out and look for it 
before it’s too late. 

“But look here!” he added. “If you’re not careful 
you’ll be getting a fever. Why not take off your clothes 
and dry ’em? I’ll be gone for some time, and—well, 
these Chinese gods have their backs turned, you’ll no¬ 
tice.” 

She demurred. He was as miserable and shivering 
as herself, surely. But he insisted. “I’ll be gone some 
time,” he repeated. Singing loudly, he went. 

She stirred the fire, giving it the few last sticks 
that remained. Musingly she slipped off her simple 
garments and spread them out on the floor. Her dress 
would surely never dry, but at least she could attempt 
to make her underclothing more comfortable. She 
knelt down on the hard floor, holding her knickers 
to the blaze j her breast bent gratefully to its warmth. 

She heard him returning, his heavy shoes clatter¬ 
ing upon the flagstones. At which she cried out a 
little unhappily, for he had been gone only a few min¬ 
utes. “Don’t come in!” she begged. But he quickly 
reassured her. 

“I haven’t that much courage,” he sang out. “But 
here’s something to be getting on with. I’ll be back 
with more.” 

Through a space between two of the gods she saw 
him go. He did not look back. She went to the heap 
of brushwood which he had brought and she carried 







206 


CHINESE RIVER 


it to the fire. He had brought too some dead branches 
which now she ranged one above the other on one side 
of the fire like a clothes-horse. She spread out her 
dress on them. When he returned it would make some 
sort of screen for her. 

He did not come for more than ten minutes, how¬ 
ever. She saw him lurching up the steps, his arms 
outstretched beneath a huge load of timber which he 
had first broken into roughly equal lengths. His face 
was hidden, but she saw his streaming hair. As he 
halted on a dry flagstone, the water ran from his 
clothes and made a wide pool. 

He was dropping his burden. 

“Well, if only we can dry ’em off, we’ve enough 
stuff to keep us going for hours,” he proclaimed tri¬ 
umphantly. “But gosh, I’m wet! How long will 
you be?” 

“I don’t know,” she answered. “This fire isn’t very 
hot yet. I haven’t even the tiniest piece that’s dry. 

. . . But bring that wood in. I’m hiding behind my 
home-made clothes-horse.” 

Hesitatingly, he obeyed her. As she knelt behind 
her improvised screen, he could see only her head 
and shoulders. 

“Humble pardon, sir” he exclaimed, and he gave to 
that unusual address his relieved, laughing emphasis. 
Then, as though he feared her dislike of that jest, 
he fell silent. He began to arrange the hissing wood 
across the fire. 

Her voice made him look up at last. 



“freedom is a man!” 


207 


“You’re shivering,” she said. “Why don’t you try 
and dry yourself?” 

He made an unsteady laugh. 

“I’d thought of looking for more wood,” he an¬ 
swered. But he nodded. Slowly he went from her, 
his shoes squelching water as he moved. A few mo¬ 
ments later she heard him wringing out his clothes. 

Eventually he returned, hugging under his left arm 
a damp bundle. Ludicrously draped before him like 
an apron was his jacket, his necktie supporting it pre¬ 
cariously. 

“Great! ” he exclaimed. “Thanks very much. 

“But won’t you be cold there?” he added unhappily. 
“Look here, I’ll wait a little while.” 

Reassured by his manner, she hesitated. “What’s 
a body, anyway?” came her swift inward mockery of 
herself. “I can always hate him, if necessary.” 

“Don’t be a fool!” she now retorted. “Better a 
couple of sensible, undressed people than two shrouded 
corpses.” 

At which she stepped suddenly into the fire’s leaping 
glow and confronted him with her nakedness. 

“Yes, it’s cold . . . darned cold,” she said. “And 
for heaven’s sake stop arguing. Dry yourself. Try 
and dry some cigarettes too.” 

Then, with her back half-turned to him, she knelt 
down to rearrange her steaming lingerie . 

“Great! Thanks very much,” he said again, but no 
other word. He took off his shoes. 

The fire blazed on, so fiercely now that they must 



208 


CHINESE RIVER 


shrink a little from its heat. Its restless, impulsive 
glow made fierce, darting assault on the temple’s age- 
held gloom, mocking the expressionless backs of the 
idols, thrusting long, inquisitive fingers to the brood¬ 
ing, crumbling roof. It claimed the man and woman 
too, giving barbaric strangeness to their bodies with 
its unfamiliar tricks of light and shade . . . her breasts 
and thighs ruddy; her throat and belly lost in mysteri¬ 
ous dusk. Yet they themselves saw nothing of that 
scene. They saw only their steaming clothes. Picking 
up a drying cigarette, he straightened it between his 
fingers and offered it to her. 

“Yes, as I was saying,” he continued, “the only 
time I saw Irving on the stage was a month before 
he died.” 

But they fell silent at last. That difficult detach¬ 
ment could not be maintained. He watched her as 
she bent and picked up her brassiere. “It’s done to a 
nicety!” she jested, but his mind could hold thought 
only for the contour of her shoulders leaping sud¬ 
denly into the glow. 

“God!” he breathed from the depths of his musings. 
“If only I weren’t John Granger Lee. . . . Yes, tied 
like a goat to a post!” 

She tried to make her comment sound natural. 

“Your wife, you mean?” 

But she had to turn and look for his answer. 

“You’re the loveliest thing I’ve seen!” came his cry. 

She did not reprove him. He heard only her gently 
soothing plea. 



209 


“freedom is a man!” 

“Don’t! A woman’s not worth all that. Truly she 
isn’t. ... For John Granger Lee there’s something 
happier, I fancy. 

“Which reminds me,” she added cheerfully. “You 
were going to tell me more about Chwan Hu.” 

At which he subsided. 

“Chwan Hu!” he echoed. “Er—thanks! Yes, thanks 
very much.” 

She bent down again, gathering together the re¬ 
mainder of her underclothing. Giving him a careless 
smile, she got to her feet and, retiring to a corner, be¬ 
gan to dress. But she had to return to him eventually, 
waiting now for her shoes and dress to dry. With her 
hand pressed against one of the idols, she stood there, 
lifting a foot to the blaze. 

“Yes, I’m a little too young to remember Irving,” 
she resumed. “But I’m hungry! Think of a menu.” 

“Scotch broth,” he began. 

“Hot lobster,” she laughingly added. 

“And Maryland chicken. . . .” 

“. . . With petits pots frais to crown it.” 

“Sure!” he rejoined. “But we’re not heavy enough. 
Start again. Mulligatawny soup. Crayfish in hot wine. 
Roast pork with . . .” 

And then his impassioned cry. 

“God, if Hinty makes you unhappy over this, I’ll 
want to kill him.” 

But he restrained himself again. He reached across 
the fire for his trunks and trousers. 

“Sorry!” he exclaimed. “We hadn’t finished. . . . 



210 


CHINESE RIVER 


Roast pork with sage-and-onion seasoning, parsnips, 
brussels sprouts. Apple fritters to follow.” 

At which he leapt lightly into the shadows, swiftly 
covering himself. Then, as he marched back to her, 
looking for his shirt, he smiled; he faced her, gripping 
her soft arms. 

“Yes, I’ve learned it,” he uttered strangely. “This 
has taught me something. You don’t fear me; you 
don’t fear any man. I think I understand Hinty at 
last . . . the way he’s content . . . worshipping you. 
He’s seen what you are. Yes, I understand—every¬ 
thing! You’re pure . . . immaculate. . . .” 

“Don’t, don’t!” she was begging him. She tried to 
break from him. “I’m not like that. You mustn’t 
think of it. I’m only a woman . . . ordinary . . . 
foolish.” 

Yet his hands still gripped her. The fevered torrent 
of his words rushed on. Did he speak madness, or 
merely a vast hypocrisy? She could not say. But she 
must thrill beneath it, notwithstanding. . . . 

“Chwan Hu! The hundreds and thousands bless¬ 
ing you, worshipping you. . . . Jennie! My virgin 
goddess. . . . Saving us!” 

And then they started, suddenly recoiling from each 
other. They were no longer alone. 

XXIX 

Above the roar of the storm they had heard a stac¬ 
cato clattering. Now, as they stared inquiringly from 
behind the row of effigies, they saw two men both of 




211 


“freedom is a man!” 

them Chinese, mounting the temple’s uneven steps. 
Each led an unkempt, sweating pony. The men ad¬ 
vanced cautiously, the foremost of them clumsily hold¬ 
ing a revolver at arm’s length before him and uttering 
a noisy challenge. 

“Come out!” he cried in the local dialect. 

Lee, answering in the cultured Mandarin speech, 
surprised him with his ringing English voice. 

“What do you want?” he demanded. “There is no 
priest here. We are foreigners.” 

Then, more sharply, he added that brusque order. 

“Hitch your ponies. Put away your revolver. Come 
here and make your kow-tow to us ... a grand kow¬ 
tow!” 

There came no answer 5 one heard only the inaudible 
murmur with which, probably, they discussed that un¬ 
expected resistance. Lee picked up one of the stout 
staves which the villagers had given them. . . . “Yes,” 
he answered Jennie’s inquiring murmur. “They’re 
dangerous, I fancy. But look! They’re tying up their 
ponies. Perhaps Pve impressed them.” 

The Chinese were now silently coming into the glow 
of the fire, giving Jennie’s scantily clad form their 
puzzled glances. One wore the faded blue dress of 
a peasant 5 the other, who still held his revolver before 
him, was clad, save for his muddy cloth shoes, in a 
greasy military uniform. Both had the desperate fugi¬ 
tive air of the typical native “bad man.” 

“Well, make your kow-tow,” Lee was reminding 
them curtly. 

The man in the uniform obeyed, but he leered at 




212 


CHINESE RIVER 


them nevertheless, moving nearer to the fire to make 
a closer study of Jennie. 

“We want tea. We do not see tea. Therefore give 
us money,” he exclaimed. 

“Much money!” he added, with a threatening flour¬ 
ish of his weapon. 

Observing Jennie’s distress, Lee did not translate 
that demand too accurately. 

“Probably a couple of deserters from the army,” he 
murmured. “But don’t look too scared. All they want 
is a couple of dollars to see them on their way, ap¬ 
parently. 

“Well, they’d better have ’em,” he decided. At 
which, fishing in the pockets of his trousers, he pro¬ 
duced a handful of silver, grinningly tossing it in his 
palm for a moment and then flinging it to the floor. 

“ Hao!” he cried. “It is yours!” 

But no sooner did the bandits come scrambling for¬ 
ward to pick up the rolling pieces than he dealt the 
man with the revolver a blow on the jaw that knocked 
him senseless. Rushing then at the other man, he 
twisted his arm behind his back until he screamed out 
in agony. Then, throwing him down on his prostrate 
companion, he bent and picked up the revolver. 

“Just a simple, peaceful missionary!” he murmured 
with a grin. “But wait! No need to get alarmed, Jen¬ 
nie. These fellows may be useful.” 

He examined the revolver for a moment, breaking 
it and discovering that it was loaded. Then, as the two 
men were getting unhappily to their knees, he laughed. 



213 


“freedom is a man!” 


“Stay there! Kow-tow again,” he commanded. And 
then, pocketing the revolver, he surprised them. He 
drew from his pocket a roll of five-dollar bills, drop¬ 
ping two of them at his feet. 

“Here is more money,” he exclaimed. “Enough to 
keep you in rice until a dog barks at you and you die of 
fright. Pick it up. Pick it up, I said. And now listen 
to me.” 

At which he began swiftly to question them. . . . 
Were their over-ridden ponies fit enough for an eight- 
miles’ ride? Did they know the road to Laushan? 
Could they be trusted to bear an important message to 
the white masters residing there? If they could answer 
yes to these things, there was even more money for 
them; also the return of their precious revolver. 

Then, while he translated these questions to Jennie, 
the men had talked between themselves and were an¬ 
swering him. They feared the white masters of Lau¬ 
shan, they began shrewdly; but, if he, the strongest 
white master of them all, would give them but ten 
more dollars they would risk their safety in his service. 

He grinned. 

“Ten more' dollars only if you bring the white masters 
of Laushan back here with you,” was his final retort 
to them. 

“Yes, just a simple missionary!” he exclaimed again 
when he had heard their acquiescing murmurs. “And 
now, Jennie, this is where I shall have to rob you of 
Hinty’s photograph after all. Sorry, but it’s for Hinty 
himself. Pm asking someone at Laushan to ’phone him 




214 


CHINESE RIVER 


and relieve his mind, also to get us out of here with a 
car. If you haven’t a pencil, lend me a nail-file . . . 
a hair-pin . . . anything!” 

The pencil which she offered him was blunt, the 
photograph small. But at last, on the back of it, he had 
written a fairly legible message. 

“Put it in your pocket,” he ordered the man in the 
military uniform. “Keep it dry. Guard it with your 
life. For here is the face of the only man who can make 
the Great and Celestial White Goddess smile down on 
him. . . . And now hurry! Ten more dollars and 
your revolver when you come back. 

“And the thanks of that simple missionary,” he had 
to add in English. 

She looked at him, listening to the shouts of the 
departing men as they guided their ponies down the 
steep, treacherous path. Her shining eyes were level 
with his bare, sun-bronzed shoulders. 

“I believe you’re conceited,” she commented. “Still, 
I’m beginning to like my missionaries that way. Thanks 
very much. 

“But missionaries of that sort don’t fall for celestial 
white goddesses,” she could not resist reproving him. 

XXX 

Ironically, they saw help coming to them just when 
the storm had ceased abruptly, and the rain-sodden 
countryside lay golden beneath the rays of a declining 
sun. 



“freedom is a man!” 


215 


Their rescuers were a middle-aged and preoccupied- 
looking German who introduced himself as a physician 
and his two attendant and muscular Chinese “boys.” 
The bandits were not with them. 

“Where are they?”—the German physician answered 
Lee’s questions. “I do not know. I did not see them; 
my colleague did see them. But ‘more money for them,’ 
you say!” He shrugged his shoulders contemptuously. 
“I know what my colleague would say to them. 
‘Money! I give you my foot!’ Yes, he did send them 
away.” 

But the German was a man of few words. He was 
more concerned with feeling Jennie’s pulse and threat¬ 
ening that when she reached Laushan he would give 
her quinine. Moreover, when he learned that he had 
still to rescue Hinty’s chauffeur, he was even less in¬ 
clined for speech. 

“Please, I am a busy man,” he apologized. “We 
must hurry.” 

They found the chauffeur sitting at his wheel—as 
expressionless and unconcerned apparently as when they 
had last seen him. He had feared the coming of the 
dark, but he had not been unhappy, he assured them. 
He had consoled himself by cursing the rain “on its 
uncle’s side,” also by laughing at the discomfiture of 
his wife’s seventeen idle relatives whom he supported 
and who probably imagined him dead. 

“I belong die-die, they catch own chow!” he ex¬ 
plained succinctly. 

During that return journey, the German doctor was 





216 


CHINESE RIVER 


even more uncommunicative. He must watch the dan¬ 
gerous road, which in many places the torrential rain 
had almost washed away. Probably too, he feared for 
his overloaded car. When Jennie ventured to ask what 
had been Hinty’s response to the telephone message, 
he answered almost curtly. 

“I do not know, madam. Only did my colleague tell 
of two people at the temple and ask me to bring them.” 

Jennie appropriately soothed him. “We’re very, very 
grateful to you, Doctor.” Then she turned and grinned 
at her companion. 

“Anyhow, he’s got our message,” she whispered. 
“By the time we see him again, he’ll have emerged 
from the spot of floor-tramping and thoroughly for¬ 
given us.” 

Because of that lack of privacy, they did not continue 
the subject, however. They teased Hinty’s chauffeur 
about his wife’s seventeen relatives. But Jenny’s mood 
spoke her returning happiness. 

“Dannie”—she was rehearsing inwardly, and she 
would tell him everything—“you don’t have to worry 
about him. He’s a man . . . decent, clean ... a man 
like yourself! People are wrong about him.” 

And then, more importantly: 

“Dannie, when that darned old Japanese steamer 
blew its siren, I was trying to tell you something.” 

Yes, the few short hours; his calm, patient smile as 
he listened to her. 

They reached Laushan. Their rescuer gave them 
each a stiff dose of quinine. Then, consigning them to 




“freedom is a man!” 


217 


the care of another and older German, he clicked his 
heels and made hurried farewell. . . . “Thank you, 
no trouble, but I work! Good-bye!” 

The German who was now called upon to entertain 
them was the man who had interviewed the bandits, 
they learned. He was good-humoured and friendly, 
but, like his colleague, he was more concerned with the 
essentials of hospitality than with any desire for idle 
gossip. 

“Yes, yes; they were amusing,” he agreed. “But, 
please, you must first take a bath. Then, you are Eng¬ 
lish ; so you will like cocktails, please. Then, you will 
dine with me. After that? Well, you should sleep; 
I could give you beds.” 

“Ah, but I see! Madam is anxious,” he added sagely. 
“Well, in case you could not honour me, I ordered my 
car. For ten o’clock, I said. I will myself take you to 
Tsingtao.” 

Lee exchanged glances with Jennie. 

“Isn’t that keeping you out of bed rather late, sir?” 
he asked tactfully. 

But the German chuckled. 

“No, no! ” he assured them. “I do not go to Tsingtao 
often, and—well, even a doctor must sometimes make 
play. My friends, you give me good excuse.” 

At which he permitted himself a genial impatience. 

“Come please! You have had much rain and little 
food. I do not want you to be sick. Quick! Your 
baths.” 

Against that solid Teuton determination they could 





218 


CHINESE RIVER 


not argue. Moreover, if Hinty had received their mes¬ 
sage, what would a few more hours matter? They 
thanked their host and let him hustle them from the 
room. 


XXXI 

When at last the German was ushering them into 
his car, it was late—nearly twelve. But so generous 
and entertaining was his hospitality that Jennie had 
hardly noticed the time passing. She answered his 
apology with a carefree laugh. 

“What does it matter?” she retorted. “I’ve enjoyed 
it thoroughly. And—well, Hinty’s is open all night.” 

As he drove, the German questioned Lee occasionally 
about Chwan Hu. He had been there also, he said, 
and knew the upper Yangtse river well. 

“But you return to a strange place, Mr. Lee,” he 
commented. “A cruel place. I admire your courage. 
The upper river is not liked. 

“And yet,” he added musingly, “I feel often that I 
shall go there again. Yes, that is the strangest thing 
of this China. The more it is cruel and one runs from 
it, the more it says ‘come back’! 

“Ah, but the upper river!” he exclaimed over his 
shoulder to Jennie. “When I think of it I am cold. 
You do not go there, Miss Davidson?” 

“No, I stay in Tsingtao,” she answered. “At least, 
I hope so.” 

Yet she must remember Lee sitting beside her. . . . 
His last evening with her, probably! 




“freedom is a man!” 


219 


“Still, I don’t think I’d fear it,” she added quickly. 
When inevitably he turned to look at her, she gave 
him her broad grin. 

But it was a dangerous topic, nevertheless. All that 
evening she had been discreetly studying him. The 
anxieties of the past twenty-four hours had begun to 
tell on him, she fancied. He was paler, quieter; and 
sometimes during dinner he had been ill-at-ease even 
to the extreme of fidgetiness. Obviously he was still 
very far from being as physically recovered as he had 
professed to be. 

She decided to get the German away from the subject 
of Chwan Hu. 

“You must have thought our message to you rather 
unusual, Doctor,” she exclaimed. 

“Well, yes,” he agreed. “I am surprised that it 
reached me. For these men are bandits, I think. It is 
strange that they did not rob you.” 

She laughed. 

“I must thank Mr. Lee for that,” she answered. 
“He’s the least lamb-like missionary I’ve ever met. 
. . . But the photograph, I mean. It was the only 
piece of paper we didn’t burn when we made ourselves 
a fire.” 

“The photograph?” The German was negotiating 
a dangerous bend of the road. “Excuse me, but I did 
not hear properly.” 

“The photograph on which I wrote that message to 
you,” Lee explained. 

“A message? I did not receive a message.” 




220 


CHINESE RIVER 


“You did not? But—well, look here, Doctor! If 
you didn’t receive my message, how did you know any¬ 
thing about us?” 

“Well, how do you think, my friend?” 

And then, sensing their sudden disquiet, the German 
brought the car to a halt. Switching on the light, he 
turned to look at them. 

Already, however, was Jennie unhappily informing 
him. 

“We asked you in that message to ’phone Mr. Hinty, 
the owner of the place you’re taking us to. We knew 
he’d be worried about us. We wanted to-” 

She broke off, staring speechlessly at Lee. 

The other man, seeing the grave look which they 
exchanged, made musing comment. 

“I am sorry,” he murmured. “I can see that I have 
made some mistake.” 

He paused, recalling that happening. 

“They were brought to me by my t’ing ch’ai. The 
t'mg ch'ai told me what already they had said to 
him . . . there were two people in trouble at the 
temple. I did not need to hear more. I gave them a 
dollar. I went to tell my colleague to find you. I left 
the men to my t’ing ch’ai. He told me afterwards that 
they tried to make some trouble about money. But, 
of course, he threw them out. 

“Yes, yes; I can see now that I was too quick,” he 
added apologetically. “But a photograph, a message 
from you? I was busy; I saw these men only for a 
few seconds.” 




221 


“freedom is a man! ” 


He started the car, yet he must muse again on her 
restless, troubled eyes. 

“Is it a very serious matter?” he asked gently. 

“Well, let’s say that Hinty’s probably looking for 
me with a gun in his hand,” came Lee’s forced jesting. 

But desperately Jennie had recovered herself. 

“No, no, Doctor! Please don’t worry about it,” she 
begged. “Mr. Hinty will be only too glad to see the 
chauffeur and ourselves safe and sound. . . . Look! 
There are the lights of Tsingtao already!” 

Yet before they had gone far, there must come the 
voice of her perplexed brooding: 

“No one’s been inquiring about us at Laushan, you 
say?” 


XXXII 

When they had reached Hinty’sy she offered the 
kindly doctor its hospitality. But tactfully he declined 
it. He left them, murmuring roguishly of a prior 
appointment with a lady in the Russian quarter who had 
promised him a breakfast of German beer and sausage. 
At which, she dismissed Hinty’s chauffeur and turned 
to Lee. 

“Well, get some sleep,” she advised him. “I’ll give 
you all the news over the ’phone tomorrow.” 

But he shook his head. 

“I must show the lad an honest face,” he insisted. 

With her heart pounding, she mounted the stairs, 
Lee’s noisy jests following her as she went. They 




222 


CHINESE RIVER 


reached the entrance to the cabaret; there came a 
familiar hubbub from the bar, a burst of applause from 
the dance-room. 

“Big-a ship he come!” the doorman informed her. 
“Plenty people!” 

His friendly grin was reassuring. But where was 
Hinty? she asked him. 

“Master go top-side,” he answered. 

She glanced at her watch. It would not be unusual 
for Hinty to have retired to the apartment at that hour. 
Lately, indeed, he had often retired as early as 1.30, 
leaving the affairs of the cabaret to Nadya Skolnikova 
and the shroff. 

“Nothing seems to have altered. The old village 
is still the same,” she heard Lee’s relieved jest. 

“Nothing at all,” she agreed, with a lightness she 
was far from feeling. . . . “Considering how many 
centuries I’ve been away, it’s almost unflattering.” 

She paused at an open door, her eyes searching the 
crowded dance-room for a glimpse of Nadya. Not see¬ 
ing her, she shrugged her shoulders. 

“Well, come on,” she laughed; “let’s get it over!” 

Taking a key out of her bag, she led the way to the 
apartment. 

The apartment was in darkness, which set her jest¬ 
ing again. 

“Not only unflattering, but almost insulting. . . . 
The man’s asleep! 

“Still, we ought to tell him, I think!” she added 



“freedom is a man!” 


223 


more soberly. “Number One!” she called loudly to 
the sleeping head-boy, and switched on a light. 

The Chinese was at last drowsily coming to her, also 
her own amah. But, before she could ask them to rouse 
their master, the door of Hinty’s bedroom had opened. 
There, dragging one of Hinty’s own dressing-gowns 
over her breast, stood Nadya Skolnikova. 

“Well, why not say something?” She answered Jen¬ 
nie’s speechless gaze. “I’ve been listening for it—sure, 
for two whole nights! As for your boy friend here— 
well, thinking of his love-lit eyes, I haven’t slept a 
wink.” 

Then, as though unnerved by their strange, incredu¬ 
lous silence, she let her voice rise almost to a scream. 

“Why don’t you say something?” she reiterated 
frenziedly. “I tell you, it’s happened—happened! 
God, why shouldn’t it happen?” 

At last was Jennie desperately answering her. 

“Where is Hinty?” came her grim challenge. 

“He’s in here!” 

“He isn’t! I don’t believe it. But you know all about 
him. Tell me, and don’t waste my time... . . Where 
is he? 

“Yes, and tell me why he didn’t come looking for 
me,” came her fierce whisper. 

“Why should I tell you?” 

Nadya’s face was death-like in its pallor. 

And then suddenly she laughed. She flung the bed¬ 
room door wide open, revealing the disordered room. 







224 


CHINESE RIVER 


“This will tell you!” came her shrill mockery. 
“Have a good look at him. Drunk since tiffin yester¬ 
day. So darned drunk that you’ve never existed. . . . 
And now let me get your ladyship a rickshaw!” 

XXXIII 

Lee’s voice was rising unhappily. 

“I think you’d better come,” he said. “I’ll try and 
get a room for you at the hotel.” 

He turned then to the Russian girl. 

“This isn’t the last you’ve heard of us,” he threat¬ 
ened. “Tomorrow, Hinty will have to hear our side 
of the story, and whether he likes it or not. 

“But why tomorrow?” he questioned himself fiercely. 

. “He’ll hear me now.” 

“Sure, try and wake him!” Nadya flung at him. 

“Yes, Jennie Davidson,” came then her mocking 
sibilance; “it’s just that sort of forgetfulness ... as 
many drinks as it will take you years to get him back.” 

Jennie cut his angry remonstrance short. 

“Don’t!” she cried. “It wouldn’t help. You’d better 
go. And I’m not coming with you. I’m staying here. 
... Yes, please go.” 

At which she confronted Nadya anew. 

“Tell me why he didn’t come looking for me!” she 
demanded again. 

Nadya hesitated, staring at Jennie, searching her 
eyes; her defiance softening momentarily beneath her 
doubt. 



“freedom is a man!” 


225 


“You’re telling me there’s nothing between yourself 
and this man?” she uttered incredulously. 

But she would not wait to hear that answer. She was 
whipping herself into frenzy again. 

“Why didn’t he go looking for you?” she echoed. 
“I’ll tell you. . . . He didn’t because he was the poor 
white-livered louse you’ve made of him. No, it was un¬ 
dignified, indelicate, it just wasn't done! Restraint, 
gentlemanly forbearance, and all the other horse- 
feathers. So he stayed here, nursing it, holding it. If 
you could have seen the hell in his eyes it would burn 
in you all your days. . . . And the rest? Well, once 
I warned you! I liked you, I said, but I loved him 
too. And there was a breaking-point somewhere.” 

“You told him?”—Jennie’s tense whisper. 

Nadya stared at her again—large-eyed, wondering. 
Her anger subsided. Her voice came almost calmly. 

“I’m sorry,” she murmured. “But, yes! I told him. 
You had it coming! You forced me . . . his misery, 
mine. How could I let him die by—by inches?” 

At last Jennie nodded. Strangely, while the mis¬ 
sionary stood mute and uncomprehending, she touched 
the other girl’s hand. 

“Don’t!” she whispered. “Don’t! I understand. 
But you told him! ” She shrugged her shoulders, noisily 
she laughed. “Well, there’s nothing more to be said. 
The speeches won’t be wanted any more.” 

But now was Nadya passionately, distractedly, plead¬ 
ing with her. 

“Jennie, for God’s sake! Don’t look at me like that! 




226 


CHINESE RIVER 


I didn’t know, I couldn’t believe . . . two whole 
nights . . . you . . . this man! For God’s sake don’t 
hate me.” 

She was gripping Jennie’s arms, flinging herself down 
at her feet. Great sobs convulsed her. 

“Jennie, what have I done? I didn’t know. But I 
believe you, Jennie. I believe you, Mr. Lee. And you 
needn’t worry, Jennie! He’s yours! Yours , I tell you. 
I’ll go away! Yes, now! Yours . . . anything!” 

“Please!” Tenderly Jennie lifted the weeping girl 
to her feet, calming her, stroking her gleaming hair, 
drawing Hinty’s dressing-gown about her truant breasts. 

. . . “It had to come,” she sighed. “Go back before 
you wake him.” 

Then, with her arm about Nadya, she turned to 
Lee. 

“You’d better go!” she said again. “I’ll ’phone you 
tomorrow.” 

“But I don’t understand all this,” he protested miser¬ 
ably. “I only know you ought not to be here. Look 
here! Let me get you a room at the hotel.” 

“Why?” she retorted, and shrugged her shoulders. 
Yet after a moment she was addressing Nadya. 

“Get back to bed,” she commanded gently. “No, 
do as I say. I want to talk to Mr. Lee. . . . And don’t 
weep any more; don’t worry. Just try to sleep.” 

Sobbing softly, Nadya went. The door closed be¬ 
hind her. Jennie faced him. 

“But why do we have to talk?” she now mocked 
herself. 



227 


“freedom is a man!” 

“Because,” he answered, and he paused only for a 
second, “Pm not going to let you stay here.” 

“And then?” 

“Well, you’ve learned your lesson about him. You’ll 
forget him. You’ll look for happiness elsewhere. . . . 
Yes, happiness! Jennie, you haven’t lost; you’ve 
gained.” 

“Sure, sure!” came her bitter rejoinder. “Pm abso¬ 
lutely reeking with gain.” 

Yet she fought that mood down; she grinned at him. 

“Well, and assuming that I leave here, what does 
one do?” she exclaimed brightly. 

“I don’t know,” he answered. “It’s hard to advise 
you—darned hard. Pm trying to keep my own feel¬ 
ings about you entirely out of the picture. 

“But look here!” he blurted. “I ought to tell you! 
There’s still a vacant berth in that Shanghai boat Pm 
catching.” 

She smiled. 

“You reserved it, you mean?” 

“Yes, but don’t misunderstand me. I did it in the 
first place, hoping to find someone here who’d take 
the place of that girl—that secretary who left me.” 

“Well, you’ll probably find her,” she retorted. 

And then, seeing his dismayed stare, she laughed. 

“You’d better know something,” she said. “It may 
help you to understand what’s happened here tonight. 
At least, it will save your time. . . . Pm not your 
great and celestial White Goddess—nor his any longer! 
Pm merely that inexpert woman whom men find em- 





228 


CHINESE RIVER 


barrassing—the woman who not only has sinned but 
commits the additional crime of letting her sin be found 
out! . . . Well, you’d better go home. Hardly the 
right sort of woman for a missionary’s secretary, you’ll 
agree.” 


XXXIV 

Lee went, but she was not surprised when, an hour 
or so later, he telephoned her. Half expecting it, she 
had already taken the precaution of ensuring that any 
telephone call would come direct to the extension in her 
own sitting-room. 

“What is it?” she asked. “You’ll be waking every¬ 
body.” 

He apologized. “But I couldn’t bear to think of 
you alone there,” he pleaded. “What are you doing?” 

She shrugged her shoulders. She was still wearing 
the soiled clothes in which last he had seen her. 

“Nothing very spectacular,” she answered. “I’m 
neither packing my bags nor tearing Nadya’s hair out. 
Absurd, I suppose! Not a bit like a novel or a play. 
But there it is! I’ve been watching the sunrise. 

“And you?” she questioned. 

“Well, it’s sunrise in this part of the world also,” 
he retorted, facetiously. “From this window I can see 
the rocks at low tide. Some men are wading among 
them, swinging lanterns and looking for—well, what¬ 
ever they’re looking for. They seem rather picturesque. 

“But listen!” he exclaimed more urgently. “What 



“freedom is a man!” 


229 


are you going to do? . . . There’s still a vacant berth 
on that boat for Shanghai.” 

She laughed. 

“Well, with all the end-of-the-season holiday-makers 
rushing away from here, vacant berths are not to be 
despised,” she commented. “Still, when I last saw you, 
I was in earnest about myself. White and Celestial 
Goddesses are out of fashion.” 

He was silent for a moment, but, even over the tele¬ 
phone, she could hear his harsh breathing. 

“Jennie,” he answered at last, “you don’t have to 
come to Chwan Hu. But you have to get away from 
that insulting environment. There’s a berth on my 
boat, I said. It will get you out of here. Why not take 
it?” 

She would not commit herself. 

“Leave me to collect my thoughts a little while 
longer,” she pleaded. “And, if I’m going, I ought to be 
sorting out my wardrobe. 

“Only a third of it seems to be of my own purchas¬ 
ing,” she almost added. But she restrained that jest} 
a second thought on it could hurt too much. 

“Well, I must go!” she sighed instead. “I’ll ’phone 
you after breakfast. I’ll tell you definitely then whether 
I’m accepting that berth or not.” 

She put down the receiver. She went to the window, 
looking to the sunrise again. He had spoken of the 
rocks at low tide. She could not see them. She saw 
only the opposite roofs; heard only the noisy, belated 
“drunks” from Hinty’s arranging in the street below 




230 


CHINESE RIVER 


a homeward rickshaw race. . . . “A dirty-thumbed 
cabaret proprietor!” Lee had once said that, and he 
was wrong about Hinty even now. Yet the words must 
tempt her anew. 

At 7.30 came the amah , bringing grape-fruit. The 
woman’s smile betrayed nothing. 

“The races today,” she said. “Not too hot for them, 
I think. Good!” 

She went away. Jennie still sat in her clothes of the 
day before. 

Then came a knock at the door. Surprisingly she 
saw Hinty there—grave, sober, ordinary; fully dressed. 

“Good morning!” he greeted her; and then: “Well, 
where do we begin?” 

He had startled her, but . . . “We don’t!” she 
retorted. “We end!” 

But any precocious schoolgirl, reacting from her first 
ill-fated love-affair, might have spoken thus. She re¬ 
gretted it immediately. She looked at him, wondering 
at his clean white linen suit, his freshly shaved face, 
his calmness. 

She got to her feet. 

“Dannie!” she uttered gently. “Why did you do 
it?” 

Yet she could not forget it. . . . Nadya, bursting 
from his room, her gleaming hair disarrayed, the dress¬ 
ing-gown hurriedly covering her nakedness, her fierce 
hot challenge. 

“Where is she?” she demanded then. 



231 


“freedom is a man!” 


He winced. 

u So you know!” he commented miserably. “The 
servants told you, I suppose. Anyhow, I came to make 
a clean breast of it . . . she’s here—in my room— 
asleep. I ought to wake her, but she’s—well, we’ve 
been beating it up-” 

She interrupted him at last. 

“You don’t need to tell me. I know!” 

He nodded. 

“Well, I’m glad,” he blurted. “It helps me. But, 
Jennie, directly she wakes, I’m sending her away, I 
promise you. ... Yes, I’m ashamed.” 

“Why?” she retorted coldly. “Why insult her so 
badly? Still, let’s talk of something more important. 
Nadya has probably told you a few things about me 
. . . Shanghai . . . my child!” 

He stared at her bewilderedly. 

“I don’t know how you’ve managed to learn all this, 
but—well, yes! She told me,” he confessed. 

“But forget it, Jennie,” he pleaded. “Forget it, just 
as I intend to forget it too. I swear it! The only man 
who heard it was a poor, drink-sodden fool . . . crazed 
with fear and anxiety . . . ready to listen to anything. 
Believe me, Jennie, only that!” 

She went to the window again. 

“I do believe you,” she said. “But why must you 
men depend on a woman for your every little ounce 
of solidity? Why must you crumble to pieces directly 
she steps away from you for a moment?” 








232 


CHINESE RIVER 


“Jennie, I was jealous of him—of Lee! And now 
you have it! I was jealous all along.” 

She smiled at him, tenderly almost. 

“Why didn’t you come looking for us?” 

He frowned. 

“I didn’t want to, Jennie. I loved you, trusted you. 
It was impossible, I told myself-” 

“Foolish!” 

“And I kept on telling myself. And then? Well, 
the hours and hours . . . the drink . . . Nadya!” 

“Foolish again,” she chided him gently. “How im¬ 
possible you men are . . . always striving to put some 
woman on a ridiculous, sanctified pedestal of your own 
making, yet crying like babies when inevitably she falls 
off. 

“And you haven’t even asked me about Lee!” she 
could not resist adding. “Why apologize to me? Per¬ 
haps it isn’t necessary.” 

He came across the room to her, his smile dimmed 
only by the merest shadow of his doubt. He took hold 
of her arms; he stared into her eyes. He grinned, he 
shook his head. 

“No!” he uttered. “I won’t believe it. You can’t 
make me.” 

And then calmly he confronted her with that ques¬ 
tion. 

“Jennie, I came here ready to confess everything. 
I’ve done it. . . . What are you going to do with 
me?” 

She hesitated. She looked away from him. 





“freedom is a man!” 


233 


“I don’t know,” she faltered. “An hour ago I’d 
persuaded myself I never wanted to see you again, 
but—well, you took me by surprise.” 

His hands still gripped her. 

“Anything else?” he asked, whisperingly. 

She was trying not to smile. 

“Well, yes,” she answered absurdly. “I’m glad 
you’re up and about . . . dressed and shaved and look¬ 
ing your best, I mean! I didn’t expect it. And—well, 
you ought to be ringing for your morning tea.” 

And yet as she spoke, that picture leapt out from her 
memory again . . . Nadya pleading with her; kneel¬ 
ing, sobbing out her contrition; and yet, protesting ever 
that fierce, defensive love of him. 

Suddenly she broke from him. 

“Dannie, I can’t!” she cried. “I mean, Pve got to 
go away. You’d better know it. Pm going on the 
Shanghai boat tomorrow.” 

She knew that he was dismayed; surprised, perhaps. 
But he contrived to grin. He sat down. 

“Well,” he began half-jestingly. “I must never 
forget Pm in the presence of someone who’s taught 
me all I know. ... At least, all of it that’s worth 
while. So Pll try to be thoroughly and conspicuously 
British . . . ‘count ten’ . . . ‘maintain a steady bat’ 
. . . ‘keep a stiff upper lip,’ and all that! Though, 
speaking of lips, it’s always the bottom lip that walks 
out on one, Pve found. . . . However, tomorrow 
you’re going, you say. The boats are rather crowded. 
You may have difficulty in getting a berth.” 




234 


CHINESE RIVER 


She was trembling, but . . . “I’ve got a berth,” she 
answered. “Mr. Lee has offered me one.” 

“Lee!” He winced. He stared his surprise. “But 
you can’t hurt me with him, Jennie,” he cried proudly. 
“I know it— you don’t love him, not a scrap. 

“As for that vacant berth,” he retorted laughingly, 
“well, you can’t fool me. Tell me the truth about it.” 

Beneath that healthy unbelief, she had to satisfy him. 
At which he laughed again and got up, and rang the 
bell. 

“Bring tea,” he ordered the “boy.” 

“Oh, and take tea to Miss Nadya . . . skokuniang /” 
he added. “Make sure that she wakes up.” 

Then he sat down again, carefully hitching up the 
legs of his faultless trousers. 

“So you want to go,” he resumed. “Well, I don’t 
want to be melodramatic. You’d hate it. So would I, 
most likely. . . . But you know what happens if you 
go. The man you were trying to make of me is that 
man no longer. Half-way up the hill he stops dead, 
rolls back.” 

But she had long ago expected that utterance. 

“He doesn’t, my dear,” she retorted. “He can’t. 
Listen. He’s that man already. How else could Nadya 
change from indifference about you to worshipping 
you . . . Nadya, of all people? 

“And that’s the only reason why I’m going. Not 
because you’ve insulted me—you haven’t!— only be¬ 
cause she loves you. So be sensible, Dannie. Life’s 
short. Marry her; be happy with her.” 




235 


“freedom is a man! ” 

“And if I don’t marry her?” 

“Well, I couldn’t make you. But I’d always under¬ 
stand that you wanted me to respect you. She’s on a 
different plane now. Once it was only her body, but 
now it’s something more. You can’t do as you did 
yesterday and then kick her out like a harlot.” 

He got up, distractedly pacing the room. 

“Marry Nadya!” he echoed. “And she’s a good 
girl—yes! . . . But you don’t surely mean it. Look 
at me, Jennie! I know you don’t.” 

“Dannie, I want to respect you.” 

“Yes! But answer me. You love me too. I know 
it: I’ve seen it.” 

She faltered. 

“Dannie, I like you very, very much. I shall always 
like you, I think.” 

But too dangerous was that thought of him. She 
found her cigarette-case. She held it open to him. 

“Dannie, I’m going. I mean it—absolutely.” 

He struck a match for her. “See; I’ve still a steady 
hand! ” he laughed. Yet his desperate jesting was done. 

“Very well,” he murmured, and bent his head. 

“But, Jennie!”—he broke for a moment from that 
deepening despair—“Jennie, when my boat was leav¬ 
ing for Shanghai and you were waving good-bye, you 
shouted something. I couldn’t hear it; the noise of 
that darned old siren killed it. What was it you were 
trying to tell me?” 

She did not answer. 

“Still, I remember the look in your eyes,” came his 








236 


CHINESE RIVER 


strange whisper. “I shall always remember it. . . . 
Jennie, what was it?” 

Her tears were welling, escaping unchecked to her 
cheeks. Almost did she break down, casting on him her 
misery. But she mustered a smile. 

“I can’t remember!” she lied. a Oh yes! It was 
this . . . ‘Write to me,’ I said. And, Dannie, that 
goes not only for now, but for all time. Yes, Pm your 
friend . . . always . . . always while I can respect 
you. And if ever-” 

But she cut that utterance short. The “boy” was 
entering with tea; yet behind him, and now fully 
dressed, stood Nadya Skolnikova also—pale, weary- 
eyed, pathetically hesitant. 

“Jennie! Dannie! It’s only for a moment. May 
I come in?” she begged. 

He had heard those words, but he did not turn to 
look at her; he did not speak. A great, impressive 
silence was on him. Only could he stare at Jennie in a 
long, unflinching gaze. 

And then, strangely nodding, he addressed the softly 
moving “boy.” 

“Oh yes! Tea!” he exclaimed. “Three cups! . . . 
Er—yes! Thank you, boy!” 

At which he turned at last and, smiling gravely, 
went to the door. 

“Come in, Nadya! Won’t you sit down? . . . Our 
good friend Jennie has to go away from us. So soon. 
I think we ought to tell her how much we—we owe 
her for everything—how much we shall miss her.” 





“freedom is a man!” 


237 


XXXV 

She was sailing away from him. 

Never again might she see his tolerant grin or hear 
his gently plodding voice. The days would pass; her 
memory of him grow old; the clamorous and urgent 
Tomorrow would call a new and alien tune in her 
heart. She was sailing away. But could she yet believe 
it? 

She looked at Lee as they tramped the deck in the 
afternoon sunshine. Speech such as hers might be dif¬ 
ficult, for she must loathe the over-populated ship as 
she would a crowded side-walk. But she contrived 
somehow to answer him. 

“Yes, yes! Til come to Chwan Hu with you. Tve 
already promised you. You don’t have to fear. A 
job . . . bread-and-butter. ... Yes, of course! 
Something to make me forget. 

“But don’t ever misunderstand me,” she breathed. 
“I love him!” 










Book Four 


RIVER OF TWISTED STAIRS 




I 


Once more had she met the River. 

Shanghai was behind, cooling itself in the late Oc¬ 
tober days 5 Nanking, where memory could importune 
one, and yet with mellowing, softened voice; Wuhu, 
Kiukiang, great Hankow. And then, one afternoon, 
with the sharp hills of Ichang confronting them, they 
got from the steamer and stretched their cramped legs. 

“The River of Twisted Stairs!” he exclaimed. 


II 

The River of Twisted Stairs! 

No geographer has called it thus. It is only his own 
name for it. But it is not inapt. At Ichang, a thousand 
miles from the sea and yet over two thousand miles 
from the mighty Yangtse’s source, the traveller up¬ 
river leaves his ship and in a specially constructed ves¬ 
sel must, for the next three hundred and fifty miles, 
face danger almost at every hour. No longer is the 
river a broad, placid flood. It races angrily through 
narrow tortuous gorges whose sides rise sheer and wall¬ 
like from their dark, unfathomed beds. Or, where the 
imprisoning gorges relent and the river runs wider, 
long glistening rapids impede its course, dissipating 
themselves in treacherous whirlpools or flinging them- 

241 


242 


CHINESE RIVER 


selves at rocks against which a steamer would smash like 
an egg. 

Jennie had heard much of the upper river already 
from her fellow-passengers. They told, almost un¬ 
believably, of how during the flood-season the river 
could rise a hundred feet in a single night; of how 
modern steamers, built expressly for that task and with 
engines of over 2000 horse-power, would fail at the 
stronger rapids and have to be dragged over them by 
rope and windlass. They told also of the river’s grim 
history. Almost daily some native junk was sucked 
down by the whirlpools, or pirated by the river’s rov¬ 
ing outlaws 5 while such was the river’s toll of lives 
that, at certain of its ports, whole communities of boat- 
dwellers made their living by spearing the corpses of 
drowned boatmen and selling them to a benevolent 
“burial-board” at a few cents a time. 

Yet sometimes, when they had concluded their sto¬ 
ries, they would look at Jennie, marvelling at her youth, 
her freshness, the arresting ring of her voice. And at 
night, over their drinks, the men made fierce, protest¬ 
ing comment: 

“Going to Chwan Hu, eh? A missionary. ... A 
girl like that! God, what a waste!” 

Ill 

But if ever she was aware of those sentiments about 
her, they did not disturb her. Nor was she distressed 
too deeply by the obvious way in which, during the 



RIVER OF TWISTED STAIRS 


243 


journey from Shanghai, the majority of their fellow- 
passengers had avoided Lee. Already had he taught 
her to expect it. “Don’t ask anyone to like us mission¬ 
aries,” he had warned her. “We’re the people who, 
according to our critics, are teaching John Chinaman 
to lick himself clean when he ought to be licking his 
white master’s boots. 

“Still, you’re not a missionary,” he was careful to 
add. “So you don’t necessarily have to agree with me.” 

And, although she gave him her laughing reassur¬ 
ance, that utterance had comforted her. If still she 
nursed that vague, lingering fear of him, she could 
dismiss it for a moment with her common-sense grati¬ 
tude. He asked nothing of her, not even her respect 
for his opinions. She was free. 

They spent the night at Ichang as the guests of a 
mission-doctor. After dinner the three of them went 
down in the moonlight to see the fleets of native junks 
that made the town a base for their upriver traffic. The 
junks should make an interesting sight, Jennie’s host 
suggested, for now were they congregating and taking 
on cargoes in anticipation of the low-water season, 
almost due, when they would be able to ascend the 
perilous river more easily. Yet that would be a dif¬ 
ficult enough undertaking, she was assured, for often 
in negotiating the three hundred and fifty miles to 
Chungking a vessel took as long as two months. 

With a mob of unchecked beggars crowding about 
them, Jennie listened to the doctor while he commented 
expertly on a great tall-masted junk that would sail 





244 


CHINESE RIVER 


on the morrow. It had shipped its last bale of cargo 
and now its crew were giving themselves to the tradi¬ 
tional and noisy ceremony of scaring away the river’s 
evil spirits. Beneath the tense October moonlight men 
were moving, black and monkey-like, as they hastily 
dressed the ungainly wooden vessel with red streamers; 
while, to the accompaniment of bursting fire-crackers 
and the beating of gongs, a cock had just been killed 
and its blood sprinkled on the deck. The noise and 
well-wishing would last the night through. 

The doctor was answering Jennie’s fascinated mur¬ 
mur. 

“Yes, if you could go on that junk instead of your 
comfortable steamer, you’d see enough to fill a book. 

“Still, thank heaven, Lee, that she’s not!” he added, 
with a glance at her companion. 

Which strange emphasis reminded her of something. 
The doctor did not appear to approve too much of Lee. 
And more than once she had overheard cryptic frag¬ 
ments of their subdued conversation. 

“Quite!” had come one of the doctor’s frowning 
retorts. “But why use a delicate thoroughbred for the 
work of cart-horses?” 


IV 

Next morning they set forth on a steamer which 
would make the run to Chungking in four days. The 
steamer was a new and foreign-built vessel and, like 
all other mechanical craft plying the upper river, car- 



RIVER OF TWISTED STAIRS 


245 


ried a second propeller and two extra rudders. One 
noticed too the stout steel mesh which isolated the 
bridge and the “first-class” quarters from the rest of 
the ship; while, as an additional precaution against 
bandits, the bridge was capped with movable, eyeletted 
shutters of armoured plate which could be dropped to 
enclose it at a moment’s notice. 

“And what are the bandits like?” he echoed her 
inquiry. “Well, a bandit in China may be anybody, 
from an illiterate cut-throat up to an imposing war¬ 
lord who was expensively educated in America. There’s 
the man who struggles to feed a down-at-heel army; 
there’s the poor half-hearted devil who apologizes for 
demanding a dollar from you and finishes up by con¬ 
fessing he’s only a simple farmer whose crops have 
been taken by a bigger bandit. . . . But they’re all 
hungry. They’re all forgivable.” 

Their ship ploughed on, calmly and untroubled for 
a while, for in the first thirty miles above Ichang the 
river is placid and still fairly wide. They passed a 
small square-sailed fishing-boat returning with its catch, 
its idle net held quaintly by five supporting beams. 
Later, with its great towing-mast unstepped, there 
swept past them a large down-going junk laden with 
wood-oil and salt, a dozen standing oarsmen pulling 
at each of its long yulos or sculling-sweeps. Their 
voices wafted across the flood in harsh rhythmic chorus. 

After a few hours, however, they came to the first 
of the rapids. They heard from the engine-room the 
sound of a bell; at which suddenly the ship was vibrat- 





246 


CHINESE RIVER 


ing unpleasantly beneath the full application of its 2000 
horse-power. In a moment there lived about its bows 
a great seething fury of water. 

The roar and the vibration at last died. “Just a baby 
rapid! ” Lee pronounced. But he handed her his glasses, 
bidding her look at an up-going junk behind them 
which, having stood inshore to give their vessel the 
legitimate precedence accorded to mechanical craft, 
would now face the rapid also. 

“They won’t find it quite so easy!” he murmured. 

She watched as, manoeuvred by straining oarsmen, 
the junk emerged slowly from the boulder-strewn in¬ 
shore into the flood. Awaiting it on a rocky promontory 
three hundred yards upsteam were the eighty or more 
half-naked “trackers” who, when it had cleared the 
dangerous shore, would drag it over the rapid with a 
long hawser of bambooskin, yet stout and fully six 
inches thick, attached to its mast. The “trackers,” at 
the command of a huge fellow armed with a cane, were 
now fastening themselves to the end of the hawser 
with short hand-lines, each hand-line being secured to 
a man’s body by the device of a broad piece of padded 
webbing which passed over his left shoulder and under 
his right arm in the manner of a cavalryman’s bandolier. 
The men, at another gesture from the fellow who com¬ 
manded them, were now spreading themselves fan- 
wise over the promontory’s uneven crest, each of them 
seeking a place where some sort of rough track might 
lie inconveniently in his path. While they did this, 
there came from the junk itself the short, sharp tattoo 



RIVER OF TWISTED STAIRS 


247 


of a drum; it had found the stream} in a moment it 
would be battling against a current running at ten or 
more knots. The men began to hurry forward, strain¬ 
ing at the hawser until it was nearly taut. Then sud¬ 
denly a few of them were jerked to their haunches, 
for, while the warning tattoo of the drum rose up to 
them again, the junk had met the current. The hawser 
was a pulsing, living thing—they its slaves. 

The ascent of the rapid began. With the drum now 
pounding out a heavy rhythm, one saw the trackers 
moving to their task like a huge, ragged dog-team. 
Sometimes, with the great tow-rope pressing down on 
them, they must bend themselves almost double or go 
on all-fours, wresting a half-dozen yards of progress 
in as many minutes. Often at a signal they would halt, 
while, down at the river’s edge, naked swimmers freed 
the rope from the grip of projecting rocks. Yet the halt 
was no respite} they must strain against the rope’s 
heavy weight, keeping themselves from being dragged 
down with it. And then, with the rope freed and alive 
again, and the drum thumping out its command, they 
would stumble on, their leader flogging their backs 
with his cane, or dancing and clowning before them 
with noisy, heartening buffoonery} while always, as 
they moved, they uttered the strange, unforgettable 
chant of their trade. At! they sang5 that lone, un¬ 
translatable monosyllable beginning deep down in their 
throats like the middle-C of a church organ, yet ascend¬ 
ing in pitch until, on the highest notes of which they 
were capable, it shattered. A strange sound} there is 




248 


CHINESE RIVER 


no description that shall convey it to the ear that has 
not already heard it. It is the tracker’s own prayer for 
lifej for, if he is silent and his lungs are idle, then 
the great rope will press down on them and constrict 
them, until at last they are cramped and immovable, 
and the slow, wasting death is in them. 

The steamer was now passing round a bend of the 
river and losing sight of the junk. But still, through 
her glasses, could Jennie see the trackers toiling like 
patient ants round the promontory. No longer were 
they spread out fanwise. With a sharp wall of rock 
rising up at their elbows they were moving in Indian 
file along a narrow ledge, a precipitous drop beneath 
them. 

And then she cried out suddenly. One of the track¬ 
ers had missed his footing and, while still he gripped 
his hand-line, his legs were dangling in mid-air. Al¬ 
most in the same moment, unbalanced by the sudden 
jerk at the hawser, the man behind him was in diffi¬ 
culties too. He had not yet lost his footing, but help¬ 
lessly and at an oblique angle, his body leaned over 
the sheer drop to the river. 

The team had halted, the men pressing their bodies 
to the rock to combat the hawser’s pull. Perilously the 
leader was returning and endeavouring to rescue the 
threatened trackers, his hand gripping the shoulder- 
pad of each man whom he must slither past. At last 
he reached them, and slowly he was able to pull the 
second man to safety. But the plight of the other man 
was beyond his efforts. Suddenly Jennie moved the 



RIVER OF TWISTED STAIRS 


249 


glasses from her eyes and shuddered, handing them 
back to Lee. In the hand of the leader she had seen a 
knife. 

Lee, putting away the glasses, was at last answering 
her distressed questions. 

“Yes, they cut him down. He fell to the rocks. 
There’s a chance, if he’s still alive, that somebody will 
be able to do something for him. Pretty grim! But 
they had to do it. If they hadn’t, and two or three 
more of ’em had slipped, there was the danger that 
they’d all be in the water. And the junk? Well, it 
would just go hurtling back until it found the first 
rock.” 

He shrugged his shoulders. 

“Well, come and have a drink before I start preach¬ 
ing about it!” he exclaimed bitterly. “But this is the 
China where a man is somewhat less valuable than a 
beast that draws a cart. The beast is stronger. When 
it dies you can eat it. . . . Yet they don’t need any 
missionaries! ” 


V 

The ship toiled on, halting each sunset as did all 
other craft on the river, and resuming its journey at 
daybreak. Once at a rapid it encountered a current so 
fierce that the 2000 horse-power of its engines failed 
it. A line had to be carried from its deck to a point 
beyond the racing waters, its own windlass hauling it 
across them. But more of fascination to Jennie were 




250 


CHINESE RIVER 


the deep, frowning gorges. At most of them could be 
seen the little bamboo huts where the men of the Cus¬ 
toms service had their look-out stations. Not only did 
they watch for the coming of bandits, but, by a system 
of semaphore signals at each end of a gorge, warned 
down-coming craft of a steamer’s approach. In that 
narrow channel with its walls rising sheer from the 
water, the wash of a vessel going at full speed ran be¬ 
hind it like a huge tidal bore. The junk that was luck¬ 
less enough to encounter it would most certainly be 
doomed. 

One afternoon when the ship was setting a gorge 
echoing with the bay of its great siren, the first officer 
invited Jennie and Lee to see the bridge. They watched 
the pilot, a short, sombre Chinese, directing the helms¬ 
man. No word passed between the two men, but ever 
was the helmsman’s gaze riveted on the pilot’s raised 
forefinger which, moving almost imperceptibly to right 
or left, gave him his orders. In the narrow, crooked 
gorge, a straight course was impossible. Terrifying for 
one who watched that seemingly suicidal manoeuvre 
for the first time, the pilot navigated his vessel, in zig¬ 
zag fashion, propelling it from wall to wall of the solid 
rock. 

“Yes, sometimes a pilot makes an error of judg¬ 
ment,” the first officer agreed laconically. “And then? 
Well, this isn’t the friendly Atlantic exactly. All you 
can do is rush a load of cement to the hole and hope 
for the best.” 

They left the bridge and, thanking the first officer 



RIVER OF TWISTED STAIRS 


251 


for his courtesy, returned to watching the river’s ever- 
changing scenery. Now, with the gorge passed and 
the river widening again, they saw stretching before 
them range after range of great razor-backed moun¬ 
tains, their dazzling majestic peaks exciting her gasp 
of wonder. 

“You like it?” he murmured. 

“Yes!” she breathed. “But I’ve been watching those 
mountains for two whole days. They’re never-end¬ 
ing.” 

“Yes, never-ending!” he echoed. “You could go 
on . . . days, weeks, months . . . trying to put them 
behind you, and they’d still be there . . . places where 
a white man has never set foot! 

“And there are men who boast that they know 
China,” he laughed, “and tell you how they’d cure its 
ills with a League of Nations pow-wow, or a few gun¬ 
boats, or a bit of jugglery with the rate of exchange 
. . . men who have seen no more of it than a Shanghai 
bar or the Legation quarter at Peking. Still, that ap¬ 
plies almost as truly to us missionaries, I guess. Pour 
all the missionaries of the world into China, and they’d 
have no more effect on it than throwing an egg at those 
mountains. 

“Still, I’m preaching again!” he reproved himself. 
“Forget it. Let’s just say you like it here.” 

“I do!” 

“And it doesn’t frighten you?” 

“Why should it?” 

“And Tsingtao?” 





252 


CHINESE RIVER 


“Don’t!” she murmured. “But it’s forgotten,” she 
added quickly, and smiled. “It’s behind!” 

Yet was it forgotten? Later that afternoon, when 
Lee had gone to his cabin for a while, the ship’s first 
officer was claiming her company again. 

“So you’re from Tsingtao! I was there this sum¬ 
mer,” he exclaimed enthusiastically. “Did you ever 
dance at a place called Hinty’s?” 

“No!” she lied desperately; and “No!” he echoed 
apologetically. “I guess you wouldn’t have been to the 
place. Hardly your class of entertainment.” 

But long after he had gone his words were still wring¬ 
ing her. . . . 

“Great chap, Hinty!” he had uttered garrulously. 
“You ought to have met him. I played golf with him 
one day. They say he has a tragedy ... in love with 
a woman . . . someone far and high above him. Look¬ 
ing at him, I could quite believe it! ... Face like a 
philanthropist with a cart-load of money, and no one 
to give it to!” 


VI 

On their fourth evening from Ichang, the ship 
reached its destination and they saw the great cliff¬ 
like mass of Chungking, the upper river’s largest city. 
They had now been travelling for nearly three weeks, 
and were jaded from lack of exercise. But the river 
still claimed them. Next morning, in a new and smaller 
vessel, they set out again. 



RIVER OF TWISTED STAIRS 


253 


At last, however, there came an afternoon when he 
pointed to where in a fold of scarred sandstone hills lay 
a huddled mass of roofs flanked by two guardian pa¬ 
godas, while down below that place, on a shingly water¬ 
front, was the activity of a small port. 

“Chwan Hu!” he uttered. “Welcome to it, Jen¬ 
nie!” 

But now that, at long last, that moment had come, 
she could no longer find words for it. She must stand 
silent, like a small and hesitant child. 

“Thanks!” was all she could whisper. 

Yet she must summon a smile. The steamer had 
halted and a couple of sampans that would serve as 
tenders for the removal of passengers and their bag¬ 
gage were drawing alongside. In one of them were 
several of Lee’s male subordinates, greeting them 
noisily. “Welcome to Chwan Hu!” they cried, and, 
helping her into the sampan, wrung her hand almost 
before Lee could introduce them. 

And then strangely they began to stare at her, seem¬ 
ing to take surprised stock of her . . . her face, her 
youthfulness, her trim tailored suit. 

“So you’re the new secretary, eh?” a young doctor 
was exclaiming. “Well, the old place certainly seems 
to be improving.” 

Yet his grin died. He glanced suddenly at Lee’s 
broad back as he turned to give some direction to the 
baggage-coolies. There was question in that glance, 
hostility almost; and the reflection of that mood was 
surely in the faces of his companions. 





254 


CHINESE RIVER 


But Lee was turning to them again. Someone 
coughed j another laughed. 

“Well, sir,” the young doctor addressed him hastily. 
“What sort of trip did you have? I hope you’re bet¬ 
ter.” 

The sampan landed them on a dirty foreshore where, 
with the low-water season just begun, a temporary 
town of primitive hutments was rapidly springing up. 
The shingle was dense with eating-houses, sweetmeat 
stalls, opium parlours, brothels; while, as daily the 
river receded, the mushroom settlement would grow 
larger, more fiercely competitive for the passing river- 
men’s pence. Lee was now taking her arm, piloting 
her across the crowded, evil-smelling stretch. As though 
aware of her discomfiture, he grinned. 

“This spot is hardly a good introduction to Chwan 
Hu,” he murmured. “Still, if it isn’t pretty, it’s plucky. 
Sometimes in the night the river alters its mind. In¬ 
stead of falling six feet it rises a dozen-” 

“And drowns the lot! ” the young doctor behind them 
exclaimed crisply. 

But she wondered once more, musing now on the 
manner of the young doctor’s remark. There had been 
challenge in it, derision surely; while, hearing those 
words, instead of echoing them, Lee was suddenly and 
frowningly silent. 

Reaching the town’s grey, earthen bund and its 
ancient water-gate her companions ushered her into a 
sedan chair. She had thought that it would separate 
her from Lee, but soon, as the chairmen began to toil 




RIVER OF TWISTED STAIRS 


255 


up a steep and narrowy stairway flanked with shops, 
his chair was abreast of her. 

“Well, Pm in harness again!” he exclaimed. “Pity 
me!” 

And then he lowered his voice. 

“Young Clements, that doctor chap, is leaving here,” 
he murmured. 

“Pm sorry,” she was about to answer. “I rather 
like him.” But she noted his pale, drawn face. The 
utterance might have been indiscreet. She waited for 
him to continue. . . . 

“There’s nothing particularly wrong with him, of 
course, except that he’s very young, and—well, as Pve 
said before, a missionary-doctor is usually a better doc¬ 
tor than he is a missionary.” 

She smiled, murmuring non-committally; they fell 
silent. Then, because of the crowded street, his chair 
had to fall behind her. When next the way was clear, 
her company was claimed by someone else. 

At last, well beyond the town, the procession of 
chairs and baggage-coolies was halting. She saw the 
gateway of a large, high-walled compound. There was 
a bustle of white-robed coolies about them. They had 
reached the mission. 

Lee was coming gravely and helping her from the 
chair. 

“Welcome!” he uttered. 

Welcome! The word seemed to echo all about her. 
But still could she only nod, or whisper her brief, 
monosyllabic thanks. Mechanically she followed him 





256 


CHINESE RIVER 


into a wide, stone-paved courtyard set with ornamen¬ 
tal garden-plots. “Welcome!” she heard again, and 
now it came from a hundred or more Chinese youths 
and girls who, drawn up in two rows in the manner 
of a guard-of-honour, flanked the approach to the mis¬ 
sion’s main building. 

“Welcome!” they chanted in sing-song unison. 
“Welcome to our reverend pastor . . . Pastor Lee, 
we hope that you are better.” 

Their noise died. Reluctantly, Lee was excusing him¬ 
self and relinquishing her to the care of his colleagues 
while he acknowledged the greeting. Forcing himself 
to a grin, he now began the laborious business of offer¬ 
ing each of the students his hand-shake. And then, 
once more, she heard the voice of young Clements, the 
doctor. 

“It looks as though he’s going to be busy!” he ex¬ 
claimed. “Come and stretch your legs.” 

She hesitated, but seeing the approving grins of the 
other men, she let him lead her away. 

And then he glanced in the direction of Lee. 

“They’ve been rehearsing that hell Handsome stuff 
for him for the past three days,” he jested. “Still, don’t 
underestimate ’em. That isn’t the only English they 
know. They can say please . . . thank you . . . give 
me . . . especially give me!” 

“Who are they?” she asked him, trying to ignore 
that sarcasm. 

“They’re the mission’s elect; the bright senior lads 
and lasses who’ve learned all the answers; the fully 



RIVER OF TWISTED STAIRS 


257 


fledged converts. They’ll leave here soon. The girls 
will continue their education at the white man’s ex¬ 
pense and gratefully blossom out as Communist blue¬ 
stockings. If the men can’t hook a government job 
at Nanking, they’ll buy themselves a smart uniform, 
collect a few peasants together, and go bandit. . . . 
And you come to this!” 

“You don’t seem to like it.” 

“Like it!” he retorted. “It makes me sick.” 

Perhaps it was a dangerous topic to pursue, but 
. . . “What’s your objection to Mr. Lee?” she chal¬ 
lenged him suddenly. At which he frowned and red¬ 
dened. 

“I haven’t mentioned Lee,” he countered. 

“But there is an objection,” she persisted. “What 
exactly have you against him?” 

She heard his uncomfortable laugh. 

“Heaven knows,” he answered. “Try to find some¬ 
thing definite against him, and one fails. 

“But forget it,” he pleaded suddenly. “I’m hardly 
being fair to him. He’s always treated me decently 
and, if there’s ever been a quarrel between us, it was 
always of my own making. I guess I’m too cheeky; 
too ready to poke fun at him without looking for the 
good in him.” 

Yet in a moment she heard his boyishly impulsive 
protest : 

“But why does he have to bring you here? Why 
doesn’t he bring someone who’s tired of life, or has 
never learned to live it?” 





258 


CHINESE RIVER 


She smiled. 

“Well, I ought to feel flattered. But supposing I 
came because I wanted to?” she retorted. “You see, 
Doctor Clements, I have to earn my living like the 
rest of you.” 

“And why not? 

“But you don’t fool me!” came his suddenly tense 
utterance. “You’re afraid of him. I saw it when you 
left that boat. You almost walked out on him. . . .” 

“How absurd!” she protested, but she knew that 
she was trembling. 

“No,” he continued grimly. “You’ve seen in him 
what I see. He’s mad, I tell you. And it’s a madness 
all the more dangerous because it masquerades as 
fervour . . . zeal . . . and all the rest of the self- 
sacrificing bunk.” 

She interrupted him desperately. 

“Don’t!” she begged. “People will be wondering 
what we’re talking about.” 

But he shook his head. 

“It might not matter,” he retorted. “Pm not ex¬ 
actly alone in my opinions. But you’ve got to know it. 
Pm a doctor, even if only a half-baked one. Pve 
watched his mind; I know what’s eating it. He’s mar¬ 
ried—chained up to a lunatic wife who can never-” 

She cut him short again. 

“I know it. He told me. But, Doctor Clements, 
why tell me this? I came here to get my living. Just 
that! No more! If Pm unhappy here, I can go else¬ 
where.” 





RIVER OF TWISTED STAIRS 


259 


“Quite! And you probably will. But, if you don’t, 
well ...” 

He paused unhappily. 

“Well, perhaps I ought to shut up,” he continued. 
“But you women are strange creatures. Once you start 
pitying a man, there’s no knowing where it will lead 
you. And that’s just the danger with Lee. He excites 
pity, I guess, just because of the darned fool he is.” 

“What do you mean by that?” 

He shrugged his shoulders. 

“It’s not the best of topics,” he answered, “but, put 
bluntly, it’s this: while most men in his position would 
find another woman, Lee refuses to.” 

“And then?” 

“Well, I hope I don’t sound any more pagan than 
the average man, but, instead of reading it as a piece 
of self-maiming idiocy, you women are apt to glorify 
it . . . admiration and pity mingling. And that’s a 
horribly dangerous blend!” 

“You seem to know rather a lot about women,” she 
retorted. “But why should pity and admiration be 
dangerous if someone’s deserving of it?” 

He frowned. 

“You mean, you can trust him,” he commented. 
“Yes, I suppose you can. But you’re still trying to bluff 
me. You see in him what I see. He’s in love with 
you . . . crazily, hopelessly ... in the way few other 
men would be content to love you. And you know it— 
flattering as it may be for five minutes, it’s all wrong; 
it’s madness. Once you fell for it, you’d be more a 





260 


CHINESE RIVER 


prisoner than the other sort of woman. He’d im¬ 
prison your soul while the rest of you died.” 

“You should have been a novelist,” she teased him. 
At which he grinned ruefully. 

“Should I?” he answered. “Well, blame my an¬ 
cestry. My father was a commercial traveller, my 
grandfather a parson. But here’s something you can't 
quarrel with. There’s such a thing as a dance-frock 
. . . lights, music, a Sprung’ floor, a bottle of ‘bub¬ 
bly’ . . . someone like this humble sinner telling you 
you’re good to look at . . . marrying you; that’s if 
he could tell the tale sufficiently well. Don’t be such 
a little fool!” 

She flushed, but she managed to control herself and 
smile. 

“It’s still all very melodramatic,” she reproved him 
softly. “And totally unnecessary. In fact, if I weren’t 
so sure you meant it in the right way, I might even 
suggest that you minded your own business.” 

But he was unabashed. 

“Suggest on!” he retorted lightly. “And I still 
haven’t finished. . . . When a girl like you comes rush¬ 
ing full-speed at a joint like this, there’s usually only 
one answer. Probably he was a very foolish sort of 
guy, but a nice guy nevertheless. Why not go back and 
give him another chance?” 

Then, as that indignant answering protest broke im¬ 
petuously from her, she fell suddenly silent. Lee was 
approaching her, with him a tall, elderly woman who 
stared at her frank and frowning disapproval of them. 



RIVER OF TWISTED STAIRS 


261 


But Lee merely smiled. 

“Thank you, Clements,” he exclaimed politely. 
Smiling still, he introduced the two women . . . “Miss 
Winston, our housekeeper,” he identified his com¬ 
panion. Finally he laughed. 

“Well, excuse us, Clements,” he uttered then. “Miss 
Winston ought to be showing Miss Davidson her quar¬ 
ters.” 

Yet that apparent calmness had not for a moment 
deceived Jennie. 


VII 

That evening, as he sat in the office in which she 
would work with him, he sent for her. But, at first, 
he made no mention of young Clements. 

Outside his open window was a group of poorly clad 
Chinese, some of them old, but mostly young women 
and children. Obviously they were new-comers to the 
place, for a young missionary woman, questioning each 
of them in turn, was reciting their particulars to a 
native clerk who stood by with a note-book. 

Lee was greeting Jennie cheerfully, bidding her sit 
down. 

“Don’t think I intend rushing you into harness too 
quickly,” he began. “But this is my private office. I 
thought you might like to see it. And the people out¬ 
side may interest you also. They’re our latest batch 
of unfortunates, just arrived. I’ve just been giving 
them the once-over.” 





262 


CHINESE RIVER 


He pointed to a Chinese mother and her trio of 
scared little children. 

“Some more victims of the river,” he commented. 
“The father was a boatman, drowned a few weeks ago 
up at Suifu. The woman may be difficult to deal with. 
We’ll feed her, clothe her, but she has all the preju¬ 
dices of the old China ingrained in her. We can’t hope 
for much. Still, she’ll be worth it. Her three kids are 
young enough to be moulded into useful stuff.” 

His expert gaze rested for a moment on another 
refugee, a fat, bearded fellow wearing a flat, blue 
turban. 

“A farmer, he tells me . . . says he’s sick, and the 
magistrates have taken his land for road-making. One 
often hears it, but probably he’s dodging his debtors. 
Or maybe he’s killed somebody, and wants a hide-out 
for a while. But he won’t stay long, I fancy. He’s 
plump, fit as a fiddle; the doctors will probably mark 
him for the road again. 

“And here’s another old scallywag who won’t ex¬ 
actly repay us,” he continued with a grin. He pointed 
to a lean, ashen-faced old man who, squatting de¬ 
jectedly on his haunches, unseeingly eyed the dust. 
“A typical opium addict,” he exclaimed. “We have 
special refuges for his sort. But one of the hopeless 
cases, I fear; he’s been in and out of here for years; 
we’ll never cure him. 

“Still,” he added cheerfully, “you can’t ration a cow 
according to the milk she gives. We’ve got to have him 
back again. The only ratio you can apply is this: the 



RIVER OF TWISTED STAIRS 


263 


greater the misery you encounter, the greater your pre¬ 
occupation and happiness in fighting it. Yes, fill a hun¬ 
dred per cent need and you get a hundred per cent 
happiness.” 

And then he laughed and went to close the window. 

“But it isn’t everyone in this place who’ll agree with 
me,” he murmured. “Tell me, what was young Clem¬ 
ents saying about me this afternoon?” 

She flushed, but long ago had her retort been ready 
for him. 

“He’s very young,” she answered non-committally. 
“Likable in some things, but rather given to exaggera¬ 
tion. I think he’ll be happier when he gives up mis¬ 
sion work. When does he leave here?” 

“I don’t know. He hasn’t said. I’ve only heard 
rumours that he’s trying to join a clinic in Shanghai, 
though he’ll need quite an amount of money for that, 
if he’s to get a good practice. 

“Perhaps he won’t leave here,” he added musingly, 
and gave her his uneasily questioning stare. 

But he recovered himself. He smiled again. 

“Indeed, he doesn’t have to leave,” he continued. 
“Still, he’s a slightly revolutionary influence here. It 
might be better. But, tell me, what sort of advice did 
he give you about me? I fancy he regards me as some 
sort of rather unnatural misfit. And, viewed by his 
standards, perhaps he’s right. But tell me, what did 
he say?” 

She had found her composure now. She could laugh. 

“Why make it so personal?” she countered. “If he 




264 


CHINESE RIVER 


criticized you, you’re just a convenient symbol for the 
rest of what’s irksome to him here. If someone else 
occupied your place he’d criticize him just the same, I 
imagine.” 

“I wonder!” he breathed. 

“And what does it matter?” she went on soothingly. 
“Surely it only matters what I am thinking of you?” 

He nodded. She heard his sighing relief. 

“Thanks,” he said. But again, beneath his smile, she 
saw his troubled doubt. 

“Yes, thanks,” he uttered. “Still, that might not 
be too flattering either.” 

She bent her head, silent, unhappy, unprepared even 
now with that answer which so inevitably was expected 
of her. But in that moment she could not logically fear 
him. The effects of her distressed mental wrestling 
with young Clements had worn off. Looking now at 
Lee, she saw him only as she had seen him in those 
last days at Tsingtao . . . calm, refreshed, confident; 
a man, surely. Recalling that memory of young Clem¬ 
ents, she almost laughed. 

At last she was attempting to satisfy him; respect¬ 
fully, sincerely. 

“What do I think of you? I don’t quite know. But 
I’ll answer a question you haven’t asked me. Ridicu¬ 
lous, perhaps, but it may help us ... I don’t love 
you.” 

“I know it!” 

“And I don’t want you to love me,” she continued 
quickly. 




RIVER OF TWISTED STAIRS 


265 


He winced, but he grinned again. 

“That might be beyond my control,” he retorted. 
“Still, go on! Why would it be so offensive to you?” 

“It wouldn’t be offensive; at least, it needn’t be. 
But can’t you see it’s only this? I don’t want you to 
love me because I don’t want to be vital to your hap¬ 
piness. Yes, and now you have it. I’m selfish. I don’t 
want to be necessary to anybody. I want to be free; 
not only physically free, mentally free!” 

He nodded. But . . . “Freedom!” he whispered at 
last. “What is freedom? One can be physically free— 
yes! Yet mentally free? I wonder! One is chained 
to every vagrant thought that comes knocking at one’s 
door, and whether it’s great, ordinary, or detestable.” 

He leaned forward to her, touching her hand for a 
moment. 

“But if freedom lies in ignoring what I dream about 
you,” he continued, “take it, do as you like with it. 
Yes, you may even laugh at me as young Clements 
does; I wouldn’t kick. All I ask is only this—your 
happiness.” 

She looked at him, surprised again as he had often 
surprised her, yet wondering even now was he sincere. 
But the wintry dusk had crept into the room; no longer 
could she see his eyes; she heard only his voice . . . 
deep, gently calm, unhurrying. 

And then, while she pondered, there came a knock 
at the door. The young woman whom she had seen 
outside the window with the mission’s new-comers was 
now asking his help. 




266 


CHINESE RIVER 


“The old chappie for the ‘cure’ is taking fright and 
becoming naughty,” she explained. “The pangs are 
on him, he says. If we don’t get him into the refuge 
right away, he’ll walk out.” 

He laughed. 

“The opium-refuge is away back in the hills,” he 
explained to Jennie. “It’s safer for ’em there. They’re 
not so much tempted to break out again. 

“Still, can’t you do something for him?” he asked 
the other girl. “Why not take him over to the dis¬ 
pensary?” 

She murmured her agreement. 

“But I understood you’d given orders to the con¬ 
trary,” she countered. “Which was why I consulted 
you. The hospital isn’t to be bothered with these opium 
cases, I was told.” 

He laughed again, mischievously almost. 

“Quite right!” he assured her. “Orders are orders, 
aren’t they? And I like them to be carried out. But 
don’t worry. . . . Send the old fellow in to me. 

“And don’t wait,” he added. “I’ll deal with him 
myself.” 

The old man came, gravely kowtowing, then ur¬ 
gently pouring out his plaint. Jennie could not under¬ 
stand it, but long before it was ended Lee was trans¬ 
lating it for her. 

“He trusts our magic to cure him, but he can’t wait 
till morning for it. If we don’t do something for him 
now, he must either get more opium or die.” 

“What are you going to do?” she murmured. 



RIVER OF TWISTED STAIRS 


267 


“Well, I wouldn’t dream of offending that con¬ 
scientious young woman for the world!” he answered. 
“Orders are orders. He’ll have to be patient.” 

But he bent and unlocked a drawer in his desk, grop¬ 
ing in it until he had found a small white pill-box. 
Opening it, he motioned the old man to his side and 
put something in his palm. “Swallow it,” he com¬ 
manded him, and watched while, hesitantly, the Chi¬ 
nese obeyed. Then, having pressed a bell, and given 
him into the care of a t y ing-ch’ai> he dismissed him. “Be 
happy! Sleep well!” he said. 

“So you keep a private dispensary of your own?” she 
teased him, when the old man had gone. “Most ir¬ 
regular.” 

“Most!” he agreed. “In fact, it’s worse than that. 
If you’re thinking that dope I’ve given him is the 
‘cure’, it’s not! I don’t keep the stuff. Besides, it 
wouldn’t do him any good. Before morning he’d be 
raving for more.” 

“Then what did you give him?” 

He got to his feet and laughed. 

“Well, orders are orders, and what I’m telling you 
is something you don’t repeat to people like that earnest 
young woman, for example. But I’ve dealt with old 
sweats like old Hsi before. What he’s had is the real 
thing—opium itself! 

“And why not?” he added. “It’s happiness I’m try¬ 
ing to give people. If the mission and its red-tape have 
to keep him waiting till tomorrow before he can be 
given the approved sort of happiness, why torture him 





268 


CHINESE RIVER 


in the meantime? Better his own sort of happiness than 
none at all.” 

At which he went and switched on the light. 

“Well, I guess you’ve plenty of unpacking to do,” 
he exclaimed. “I’ll see you at supper.” 

But she lingered. 

“Happiness!” she echoed musingly. 

“Sure!” he exclaimed briskly. “One per cent of 
it for each one per cent of need that you fill. A hun¬ 
dred per cent of it if you can find the task that demands 
a hundred per cent also. . . . But run along!” 

And then she was going to him, gripping his arm 
impulsively. 

“I’ve been foolish!” she cried. “Foolish and sus¬ 
picious and ungrateful. But I’ll try for that happiness. 
I swear it.” 

VIII 

The brief, mild winter had come and gone. When 
the warm rains of spring had lifted it would be sum¬ 
mer in a day; the orange-groves glistening, the corn 
sighing. Was she happy? Did she still sometimes know 
that sense of “marking time”? She could not say. But 
she had been at Chwan Hu over six months. And life 
was full. She had forgotten to count the passing days. 
She could forget Yesterday with the morning clam¬ 
ouring at her window and proclaiming the responsi¬ 
bilities of Today. 

It had not been easy to achieve that tranquility, how- 



RIVER OF TWISTED STAIRS 


269 


ever. The mission-station was large and important; its 
people many, and mostly of her own sex. Few of them 
had approved of her presence at first, for they saw in 
her townish clothes and well-kept physical exterior the 
hint of an easy civilization that they had long ago 
forfeited or never known. Moreover, they would not 
soon forget the circumstances in which Lee had brought 
her there. They might respect or fear him, but never 
completely understand or admire him. His complexed, 
inward nature baffled them as much as still it could 
baffle Jennie herself. Better had he filled the post of 
the runaway secretary more conventionally with one 
of their own number, was their judgment. 

But as the months passed and they became aware of 
how little there was in that strange, platonic relation¬ 
ship between Lee and Jennie to justify their suspicions, 
they fell to considering her more warmly. They saw 
the energy which she gave to her work, the zeal, the 
patience; and, in their own relations with Lee, they 
had come lately to regarding her as a willing and ever- 
friendly intermediary. If they had a grievance to air 
before him, she would express it for them and more 
frankly than they would have dared. “Yes, she rules 
him,” they would say. “But with what?” Admiringly 
then they would wonder at her. While, always to con¬ 
firm that admiration, was the affection which she in¬ 
spired among the humbler people to whom she and her 
colleagues had dedicated their labours. Having in her 
six months there gained a useful colloquial knowledge 
of the local Chinese dialect, she was now combining with 





270 


CHINESE RIVER 


her secretarial duties the task of interviewing those who 
sought the mission’s help. If they survived her shrewd 
but gentle questioning and passed into the mission’s 
care, they would remember her, going to absurd lengths 
in the simple, likable way of the unspoilt Chinese peas¬ 
antry to show their gratitude; while those who had 
known her longer had coined for her, as they did for 
all the white people about them, a special name. Virgin 
of the Good Sound they called her, and it acknowl¬ 
edged her golden voice, her good-humoured laughter. 

Yes, she was happy there, she would have admitted. 
Nevertheless, she could still afford her colleagues an 
ounce of legitimate gossip and speculation; for young 
Clements, who once had proclaimed his dislike of the 
mission at almost every supper-table and not at all in¬ 
frequently in the bar of the local Customs Club, was 
still there—a thorn, as ever, in the side of his superiors; 
a flourishing and romantic rose to all others. 

IX 

Only once in that long time had she received news 
of Hinty and Nadya. 

At Christmas there had come a card for her: “To 
Jennie from Nadya and Dannie.” And with it a let¬ 
ter from Nadya giving her the local gossip. The 
cabaret, like its competitors, had closed for the winter 
and its staff dispersed, she said; only she and the shroff 
being retained to look after the bar and card-rooms 
which would remain open the whole year round. But 




RIVER OF TWISTED STAIRS 


271 


with the news of Hinty’s and its better known patrons 
exhausted, Nadya had nothing more to relate. Her 
only mention of Hinty himself was that he was spend¬ 
ing most of his time at golf. Of her own affairs with 
him she revealed nothing, though, somewhat surpris¬ 
ingly, her notepaper bore the address of the same mod¬ 
est apartment-house in which she was living when last 
Jennie had seen her. 

And that had been almost seven months ago! 

But, one afternoon in late June, news of them came 
unexpectedly. Jennie was alone in the office when a 
visitor was brought to her—old Carson of Tsingtao. 

Old Carson! Tsingtao’s leading foreign resident! 
She remembered him well; the grave, courteous old 
fellow who in her early days at the cabaret had been 
the object of such extreme veneration on Hinty’s part. 
She recalled Hinty’s almost pathetic delight when first 
old Carson had asked him to play golf; his pride when 
old Carson had offered to teach him bridge. Yet that 
respect was hardly misplaced. Few were the people in 
Tsingtao who did not share it. 

But, old Carson at Chwan Hu! And Tsingtao an 
uncomfortable three and a half weeks’ journey away! 

“Really,” she was exclaiming, as she recalled his 
undoubted love of the fleshpots, “this is positively 
amazing!” 

Mr. Carson, claiming the time-honoured privilege 
of patting her hand, made sighing acknowledgment. 

“I suppose it is, my dear,” he agreed a little sadly. 
“You must blame my doctor. I don’t know what’s 





272 


CHINESE RIVER 


come over him lately. Nothing would satisfy him ex¬ 
cept my risking my neck on those darned rapids. . . . 
Change of air, something to shake my liver up, he says; 
though not a word about the wear and tear of my nerves! 
And, to add insult to injury, not a solitary drink until 
sundown, he says—and then only a single whisky to 
two-thirds soda.” 

“Well, it’s a great honour,” she murmured. 

“Still, Chwan Hu’s rather off the map,” she could 
not resist adding inquisitively. “How did you find me 
here?” 

Did that question embarrass him? She was not quite 
sure. 

“Well, you must blame a very friendly young ship’s 
officer,” he hastened to answer her. “Chap I met on 
the run from Ichang to Chungking! Actually I’d 
planned to turn back at Chungking, but, talking of 
Tsingtao where he spent a holiday last summer, he hap¬ 
pened to mention your name. I think you—er—made 
an impression on him. He fancied you’d remember 
meeting him. Anyhow, there was I at Chungking, all 
lonely and eager for the sight of a Tsingtao face, 
when he told me about you. So, when I got off the 
boat, I dug up the nearest missionary people and made 
some inquiries. You were still here, they said.” 

Still there! Old Carson had spoken of that fact 
rather as though it savoured of the extraordinary. But 
she made no comment. She smiled. 

“How long do you stay here?” she asked. 

The old gentleman pondered that question, staring 




RIVER OF TWISTED STAIRS 


273 


out to the mission’s sedate courtyard. A trio of be¬ 
spectacled young Chinese women with books under 
their arms were hurrying across it on their way to a 
senior students’ lecture. Their air of earnest preoccu¬ 
pation seemed to affright him. 

“Well, I’m going home,” he assured her firmly. 
“Believe me, I’ve seen enough of this river to last me 
a lifetime. Still, I’m badly in need of a little terra firma 
for a day or two, and I’d thought of getting a haircut 
and having my clothes laundered. 

“But where does one stay?” he added cautiously. 
“All I could see on the Bund was a ghastly hotel full 
of Japs and the smell of sukiyaki. I think I’ll wait 
until I strike civilization again.” 

“Why not stay here?” she suggested. “We put up 
lots of people in the course of a year.” 

Mr. Carson was politely dubious. At which she 
laughed. 

“Don’t worry,” she said. “Our hostel for visitors is 
conducted just like a private hotel. It’s a separate in¬ 
stitution, in fact.” 

“Really, my dear! But doesn’t one have to sing 
Onward Christian Soldiers , or do something or other?” 

“No! There’s not even a scriptural text for the 
good of sinners on the bedroom walls.” 

“Good heavens!” Mr. Carson exclaimed. “I mean 
—extraordinary! No—excellent! Then, if I cared 
to have a little bottle of something—er—concealed 

in my room . . .” 

She laughed again. 






274 


CHINESE RIVER 


“The mission is very hard up,” she said. “We’ve 
even been known to supply the soda!” 

But now that Mr. Carson was delightedly express¬ 
ing his intention of patronizing the hostel for at least 
a couple of days, there could fall on them the awkward 
realization that sooner or later they would have to 
discuss Hinty. 


X 

That courage to do so was eventually found by Jen¬ 
nie as they sat over tea. 

“How is he?” she asked. 

“Who?” he retorted. But his guilty flush betrayed 
him. 

“Hinty, you mean?” he continued. “Well, I couldn’t 
say. The last I heard of Hinty was that he’d started a 
business in Shanghai.” 

“Shanghai? Then he’s left Tsingtao. But what about 
the cabaret?” 

He avoided her gaze. 

“Sold up,” he answered. 

“But for quite a good sum, I understand,” he added 
brightly. 

“Splendid! ” she commented. But first she must fight 
the tremor in her voice. 

“I suppose he’s taken a bigger place?” she continued 
quickly. 

“A cabaret, you mean?” 

“Yes, of course.” 



RIVER OF TWISTED STAIRS 


275 


Old Carson frowned suddenly at the floor. 

“No,” he answered heavily. “Not a cabaret. He 
started a a book-shop; a rather large book-shop, in 
fact . . . first editions, and all that.” 

“A book-shop!” she echoed wonderingly; and then: 
“That should be rather exciting, don’t you think?” 

“Exciting?”—Mr. Carson frowned again—“Er— 
yes, very! Still, there are quite a number of other 
book-sellers in Shanghai; long-established people like 
Kelly & Walsh, for instance ... all sorts of people. 
He’ll be a clever man if he . . . 

“Well, he is a clever man,” he concluded desper¬ 
ately. “Jolly good luck to him.” 

“Yes, jolly good luck!” 

She fell silent. 

But at last she could find composure again. 

“Mr. Carson,” she exclaimed suddenly, “we don’t 
have to bluff each other. I think I know why he sold 
the cabaret. So do you, I fancy.” 

“Indeed!” said the old man primly, and then he 
permitted himself to look at her. Slowly he nodded. 

“I was very fond of Dannie,” he breathed. “I had 
his confidence, I think. 

“Still,” he went on politely, “pray don’t misunder¬ 
stand me. He behaved like a silly ass, and I didn’t 
neglect to tell him so. I—I—well, I’m talking to a 
mem-sahib, my dear. I didn’t blame you. It’s just 
that—well, the dice were rather loaded against him; 
ironically so. Perhaps, with an ounce of luck, it might 
have ended very much differently. 




276 


CHINESE RIVER 


“Er—but the man’s a fool! ” he added severely. “He 
ought never to have re-engaged that girl.” 

He coughed, frowning righteously at the wall. 

“Well, let’s change the subject,” he said. 

She smiled. 

“I rather liked Nadya,” she murmured. 

At which Mr. Carson deemed it expedient to show 
his surprise. 

“Indeed!” he exclaimed. 

“Yes, and I shall always like her. I’d been expecting 
to hear they were married.” 

“Why?” exclaimed Mr. Carson; but “. . . Er— 
yes, indeed!” he commented. “A little more milk, if 
you don’t mind.” 

“But why didn’t they marry?” she persisted. 

He looked at her. A little smile seemed to play 
round his lips; a suddenly joyous smile, she thought. 
He sought to hide it, however. 

“Why?” he echoed sedately. “Well, that girl’s a 
tough handful, but I think she has sense. She real¬ 
ized he didn’t love her, I suppose.” 

“But they didn’t separate?” 

“Er—no!” the old gentleman agreed musingly. 
“Still, if you’re asking me: did she resume living with 
him? I don’t think so. In fact, I’ll swear she didn’t. 
After you left it, that apartment of his was like— 
well, like a morgue. He got rid of most of the serv¬ 
ants. He locked up every room of it except the kitchen 
and his bedroom, I’m told. And the girl? Well, he’s 
not vindictive. He wouldn’t send her away. And I 



RIVER OF TWISTED STAIRS 


277 


fancy that in a strange sort of way he was trying to be 
kind to her. But he wasn’t aware of her, if you under¬ 
stand me. In fact, he didn’t appear to be aware of any 
of us. And I? Well, I ’m his friend, my dear—his very 
great friend, if he’d only realize it.” 

“Don’t!” she pleaded. But she recovered herself. 

“Where is Nadya now?” she asked. 

He frowned again. He did not seem to like that 
question. 

“Well, she went to Shanghai also,” he informed 
her. “He gave her a job in this book business, I be¬ 
lieve. Whether she’s still with him, I can’t say. Try 
to judge her feelings for him, and the ordinary stand¬ 
ards don’t apply. She’s Russian—semi-barbaric—un¬ 
tamed. Frankly, I’ve never been able to understand 
her. But . . .” 

“But she loves him!” 

“Loves him! Er—yes! Perhaps! Well, how should 
I know? However, if my luggage has arrived from 
the Bund, I ought to be getting to my room. . . . But, 
where was I? Oh, yes! He’s taken a book-shop—very 
ambitious sort of place; too ambitious, maybe. Perhaps 
you’d like its address.” 


XI 

Old Carson had been at Chwan Hu four days—two 
days longer than he had planned. 

“Tomorrow I ought to be pulling out,” he had more 
than once said, but he was not in any hurry, it seemed. 




278 


CHINESE RIVER 


He praised Chwan Hu’s scenery, its peace, the comfort 
of the mission’s hostel; or, if a more formidable excuse 
was necessary, he would sometimes pat his stomach and 
make cryptic plaint about his health. “Well, that doc¬ 
tor fellow may be right about me, after all, confound 
him. No sense in overdoing it. Perhaps I oughtn’t to 
tackle that river again until Pm really fit.” 

Since that afternoon when he surprised her with his 
visit he had made no further reference to Hinty, how¬ 
ever. Yet his very avoidance of the subject was suf¬ 
ficient to reveal how completely it obsessed him. He 
had liked Hinty, and obviously he still yearned for 
his friendship. Just as obviously he longed to see her 
and Hinty reconciled. And though she must be grateful 
to the old man for his decent silence towards these 
things, it did not comfort her. Sometimes, and much 
as she respected him, she could almost pray for him 
to go. 

There came at last a day when this would really 
happen. He announced his intention of catching the 
boat to Chungking directly after tiffin. So relieved was 
she by this news that, when he pleaded with her to 
put aside her work for a few hours and go walking 
with him, she cheerfully yielded. 

They strolled the hills, the neat, cultivated fields 
all about them. Here and there the coloured, mosaic¬ 
like expanse was broken by a village nestling in a 
grove of mulberry trees. The peasants bent to the 
earth, tending cucumbers, radishes, and sweet pota¬ 
toes. A boy passed them, carrying a captive bird on a 



RIVER OF TWISTED STAIRS 


279 


stick, the bird taking seeds from his lips. A bullock- 
cart crawled lazily in the distance. 

“Very peaceful!” old Carson was exclaiming for the 
second time. 

Yet, down below, for his almost malevolent con¬ 
templation, lay the river—in flood now—rust-red. 

“Ay,” he breathed, shaking his fist at it. “And soon, 
you murdering old rascal, we’ll be meeting again. 

“However,” he solaced himself, “there’s always 
Shanghai at the other end. Which reminds me. When 
I get to Shanghai, I’m looking up Dannie—er—Hinty! 
And won’t we hit it high!” 

She had not expected that speech. Yet, with only 
a few hours of his company remaining, it need not dis¬ 
tress her too much. She laughed. 

“I fear the worst!” she commented lightly. 

“You may! And I’ll tell him you said so. . . . But 
what message for him, my dear? 

“Or isn’t there a message?” he added strangely. 

She tried to jest, but the effort failed her. She 
halted, facing him. 

“Mr. Carson,” she pleaded, “wouldn’t it be better 
if you didn’t mention me? Why hurt him unneces¬ 
sarily?” 

He was silent for a moment. Then he smiled. 

“I wouldn’t hurt him for the world,” he answered. 
“But would it hurt him? I wonder! Perhaps it might 
help him.” 

“Perhaps,” she agreed. Yet he heard now her dis¬ 
tressed protest: 







280 


CHINESE RIVER 


“Mr. Carson, don’t! I tell you, Pm staying here!” 
He nodded at last. Murmuringly he apologized and 
fell silent. They walked on. But he was not yet done 
with her, she knew. Presently, when she was hoping 
to distract him with her talk of the mission, there came 
his sudden blunt logic. 

“Yes, yes, it all sounds very attractive. But, my dear, 
at the risk of offending you, Pm going to say that you 
don’t deceive an old man. True, the green hills of 
Chwan Hu may be very pleasant; very pleasant, too, 
the thought that a few hundred people here have 
cause to be grateful to you. But the world is somewhat 
wider than Chwan Hu, and much as Pm not unsympa¬ 
thetic, the problems of its humanity are greater than 
those of a handful of peasants.” 

“They’re as many as I and fifty other people here 
can find time to deal with,” she retorted. 

“Ay, and I won’t disparage ’em!” he uttered. “But, 
fifty-and-one ostriches would consider themselves just 
as busy at burying their heads in the sand. And why 
not admit it? You’re here chiefly because the most 
fanatical and self-imprisoning ostrich of them all has 
persuaded you to see glamour in it. 

“And why does he persuade you?” he continued, 
almost heatedly. “Because, deep down beneath his 
polite, efficient-looking exterior he’s a crazy fool ... a 
crazy, inhibited fool who consigns himself to a joyless 
lock-up just because he fears the thing he most wants.” 

He halted. He took hold of her hands. He com¬ 
pelled her to meet his gaze. 

“Well, that may sound a trifle involved,” he ex- 



RIVER OF TWISTED STAIRS 


281 


claimed smilingly. “But don’t mistake me. I haven’t 
been here all these days for nothing. I know Lee; I 
know his story. I’m deeply sorry for him. What’s 
more, for some things I admire him. Particularly I 
admire the way he respects the sanctity of that unfor¬ 
tunate marriage of his. But why need he go about it 
so much like a monk who would shut himself up in a 
cell and dodge the realities? Why run away from Life; 
why not meet it bravely? And if one falls foul of it, 
well, why not get up and challenge it again? Surely, 
if there’s a Divine wrath, there’s a Divine mercy also!” 

“I suppose you’re right!” she heard herself admit¬ 
ting at last. “Still, if he’s happier like that, why must 
you and everyone criticize him so terribly?” 

He sighed, walking on. 

“Is he happy?” he countered. “Well, perhaps he is. 
But let me show you the nature of that happiness. He’s 
happy chiefly because, while a woman shares that same 
starveling existence with him, it seems more natural 
and real.” 

“And if I were content to share it with him?” 

“Well, you’d surprise me. You’re young, normal, 
healthy. You need a home, a man . . . babies. Tell 
me that you want anything else, and I’ll laugh at you. 
. . . Jennie, let me take you back to Hinty.” 

He pleaded on, but he could not move her. Soon 
they had to return to the mission where she must leave 
him and go to the office, there to show herself unhap¬ 
pily to Lee himself. 

When she entered the office, Lee was sitting at his 
large, somewhat untidy desk. If he suspected the cause 




282 


CHINESE RIVER 


of her distress, he did not betray it. He grinned, and 
made cheerful comment on the fact that she was back 
earlier than he had expected. At the same time he toyed 
with a revolver. 

“I’ve been renewing acquaintance with an old friend! ” 
he exclaimed. 

“An old friend?” she echoed questioningly. 

“Yes, Pve been cleaning it.” 

And then she realized that he was speaking of the 
weapon itself. 

“Well, there’s no accounting for friendship,” she 
tried to jest, but he was beginning to puzzle her. His 
manner held the suspicion of a forced gaiety. She no¬ 
ticed the unusual brightness of his eyes, yet the dark 
rings beneath them. He seemed like a man who had 
just revived himself with liquor after a previous ex¬ 
cess of it. 

“But why do you keep the thing?” she asked sud¬ 
denly. 

He gave her a noisy laugh. 

“Why not?” he retorted. “It wouldn’t be the first 
time I was indebted to it. Believe me, they aren’t all 
simple johnnies who walk into this place looking for 
a pot of ointment. Two summers ago, and in this very 
room, a couple of fellows held me up for the petty- 
cash box. . . . Yes, a fine old friend!” 

“I suppose so,” she murmured wonderingly. “Still, 
if you’ve finished with it, why not put it away?” 

And then she could not restrain that sudden ques¬ 
tion. 



RIVER OF TWISTED STAIRS 


283 


“ What’s the matter with you this morning?” 

He laughed again, bidding her sit down. 

“Nothing! ” he retorted. “Why do you ask?” 

“Well, if you don’t mind my saying so, you sound 
as though you’d been drinking.” 

“Not a drop! 

“But what would be wrong with it?” came the per¬ 
plexing abandon of his mood. 

She was not convinced, but she would not argue with 
him. 

“Well, if one needs it badly enough, there’s nothing 
wrong, I suppose,” she answered good-humouredly. 
“But I—well, I was thinking you might be under the 
weather.” 

His fingers were caressing the revolver again. 

“Huh! I’m feeling as fit and fine as fifty fleas,” he 
boasted. 

Yet his grin sobered. He stared suddenly and mood¬ 
ily at his desk. 

“It will pass,” he whispered. “Yes, just give me 
twenty-four hours and I’ll have forgotten all about it.” 

At which he was picking up and flourishing an Eng¬ 
lish newspaper. 

“It’s only this,” he confessed bitterly. “My Lords 
and Little Tom-Noddies who’ve sat for six months on 
the latest Divorce Commission have decided not to 
alter the law. In short, a man married to an adulterous 
lunatic may go on being tied to her until he’s a raving 
lunatic also.” 

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, “very sorry.” 



284 


CHINESE RIVER 


And then, slowly understanding, she snatched up 
the revolver. 

“Don’t be such a fool! ” she cried. 

At last she could find the words to soothe him. 

“Yet, it’s rotten . . . cruel! God in heaven never 
surely intended His laws to be interpreted in that re¬ 
volting fashion. But look here! And this is something 
I’ve wanted to say to you for a long time. Why not 
leave here? Why not give up missionary work alto¬ 
gether? Find a place for yourself where people might 
expect—well, expect a little less of you; somewhere 
happier, somewhere more—more normal.” 

He looked up at her, smiling suddenly. 

“What would you do if I took your advice?” he 
asked then. “Would you remain here?” 

“Perhaps not.” 

“And then?” 

She laughed, trying to make that answer sound cas¬ 
ual and ordinary. 

“Well, you wouldn’t need me any more. We’d both 
go our respective ways, I suppose. Which reminds me. 
Somewhere in this world, although I never hear from 
them nowadays, I have something of a family—a father, 
a sister.” 

His smile died. He turned away from her and bent 
over his desk again. 

“So! We’d go our respective ways!” he echoed 
strangely. “I shouldn’t need you any more! . . . 
Well, I don’t think we’ll discuss it. 

“But, leave here? No!” he answered her grimly. 




RIVER OF TWISTED STAIRS 


285 


“That isn’t possible. Perhaps they hate me here; never¬ 
theless, they need me. Yes, it may be difficult, but I 
have to stay on . . . my best for ’em . . . somehow 
. . . somehow!” 

She heard once more his queer laugh. 

“Go and get your tiffin,” he said. “Carson will be 
expecting you to see him on to the boat.” 

“Perhaps. Yes, I suppose so,” she faltered whisper- 
ingly. 

He fell silent. She wondered what were his thoughts, 
but, after his quick, searching glance at her, he had 
turned from her again. She saw only his broad, athletic 
back, bent, unmoving over the desk. 

She picked up her hand-bag. 

“Well, Pll go and eat!” she exclaimed. “You’d 
better come too.” 

“Eat!” 

She heard his great sigh. He looked up at her sud¬ 
denly, and then she knew that silently he had been 
weeping. 

“Yes, Pm delaying you,” he apologized. “You’ll 
have to hurry. . . . But tell me something; be frank 
with me. Carson has advised you to take your free¬ 
dom?” 

She did not answer, at which she heard his grim 
little laugh. 

“Well, why not take it?” he challenged her. “Take 
it . . . find that sweet, tolerant world you wanted me 
to seek. Yes, Pm staying here. I must! But I think 
Pve always impressed it on you; you are different, 




286 


CHINESE RIVER 


you’re free . . . free as the skies. Why not take your 
freedom?” 

“Freedom!” she echoed whisperingly, and looked 
out for a moment to the white day. Then she answered 
him. 

“Freedom is a man! Yes, only a man.” 

He stared at her, uncomprehending even now. 

“I wonder whether I understand you,” he began. 
“What do you mean by ‘freedom is a man’?” 

But she smiled. She cut his perplexity short. 

“It’s nothing,” she murmured wearily. “Just some¬ 
thing that a funny little Russian woman once said to 
me. . . . But don’t worry! Mr. Carson suggested 
nothing of the sort. Come and eat. . . . And we 
ought to begin talking about that suggested Nativity 
play.” 

She touched his head. 


XII 

The year grew old. The river had run low again. 
The red of the hills was reasserting itself beneath the 
harvested fields. In four weeks would be the white 
man’s Christmas. 

In the mission now was much activity. Infant voices 
were being drilled in the singing of Christian carols 
whose Chinese versions could sound so little like glad¬ 
ness, so much like parodies. Formidably the senior 
students rehearsed the Nativity play, and the younger 
of the hospital’s doctors and womenfolk planned a 



RIVER OF TWISTED STAIRS 


287 


fancy-dress ball for Boxing Day, yet going clandestinely 
into sub-committee as to the amount of “drinking” 
which their superiors might be expected to permit. 
Memories of previous Christmases were searched, and, 
as a precaution, young Clements was deputed to ex¬ 
plore the possibilities of smuggling cases of beer and 
whisky into various bedrooms. While even those who 
were not of the mission’s elect were not forgotten; for 
the better advertisement of the white man’s God over all 
other gods, the mission was arranging a distribution of 
food and gifts to the whole of Chwan Hu’s poor, and 
regardless of the state of their souls. 

Jennie Davidson, who found herself assisting in mauy 
of these preparations, could not help feeling slightly 
apart from them at times. To offer a simple Chinese 
people a sugary and Teutonic conception of Christmas 
which they could not possibly grasp struck her as being 
ridiculous and a waste of time. She preferred the at¬ 
mosphere of the mission when it was devoted more aus¬ 
terely to the healing of the sick and the comforting of 
the fatherless, and anything that sought to adorn these 
essentials seemed trashy and vulgar. But, perhaps, be¬ 
cause of her preoccupation she might call herself con¬ 
tent—at the least, not unhappy. She reminded herself 
occasionally that she was working until nearly midnight. 

No further word had come of Hinty or Nadya; and 
from old Carson she had received no more than a let¬ 
ter of thanks posted to her at Hankow with a small 
gift. Politely he avoided the subject of their many 
talks together. Perhaps, indeed, when at last he saw 





288 


CHINESE RIVER 


Hinty he would even decide not to mention her. 

Yet her growing reassurance was suddenly banished. 
There came a letter not from Carson or Hinty, but 
from Nadya Skolnikova, announcing unexpectedly that 
she had married a man of her own nationality, and, 
what was more unexpected, a man who was quite poor. 

Am I foolish? [she jested]. I think not. When a 
man's so darned washed up that he regards you as a 
saint every time he sees you cooking a meal for him , 
there's something flattering in being his woman. Yes , 
we're going to be happy , and I've traded most of the 
swell wedding-presents for some real sensible necessi- 
tieSy including a spare bed that might be useful one of 
these days. 

Yet Nadya had not written merely to tell her that! 
She knew Nadya too well. Inevitably, to wring and 
haunt her, came also that news of Hinty. There was 
Nadya’s long and unhappy postscript: 

Don't be sore at me y but I've got to tell you. Dannie 
Hinty worries me. He's splashed his money about con¬ 
siderably—a snooty bookshop, for instance, full of Shaw 
and Huxley but never a word about the corpse-on-the- 
maty or Little Audrey. He's lent money also to some 
fool institution for providing broken-down cabaret- 
girls with higher education and nice jobs as governesses. 
Though just imagine those good English mamas trust¬ 
ing us dance-girls with their husbands around! But is 
he getting anywhere? I'll say not. If folks aren't pity- 



RIVER OF TWISTED STAIRS 


289 


ing him y they’re laughing at him. And I feel like mur¬ 
der every thne I hear of it. But that isn’t all! A few 
days ago I was dragged out of a rickshaw by Papa Car- 
son of Tsingtao. He said he’d seen you in the sum¬ 
mer y and gave me your address. Dannie’s sick y he said 
darned sick. After Christmas he’s got to go into 
hospital—something to do with a wound he had in the 
War. But he doesn’t care. Papa C. could hardly get 
a word out of him y he said. 

And then came that abrupt, almost challenging con¬ 
clusion: 

Well y it’s none of my business y I guess. But some¬ 
times I dream about Dannie y seeing his eyes—the day 
you left him. 


XIII 

Few letters came for Jennie nowadays, and almost 
without exception they were from England. It was, 
perhaps, unfortunate that Nadya’s letter should reach 
her as she sat one afternoon at work with Lee. When 
the t’ing ch’ai handed it to her, Lee could not have 
failed to see its Chinese postage-stamp. Therefore, 
when she had excused herself and read it, there seemed 
to be no alternative except to tell him. 

“It’s from Nadya Skolnikova. She’s married.” 

“Nadya Skolnikova?” Echoing that name, he raised 
his brows. “Isn’t that the girl who—well, the girl 
who caused all that bother at Tsingtao?” 






290 


CHINESE RIVER 


She nodded, but she smiled. 

“There’s nothing wrong with Nadya,” she retorted 
gently. “Just a woman like the rest of us, you know.” 

And then, checking her sigh, she bent down to her 
typewriter. 

“Well, Pm sure she’ll be very happy,” she concluded. 

Yet she knew that his curiosity was not satisfied. 

Presently she heard his sudden inquiry. 

“Married, eh? Then what’s happened to Hinty?” 

That question was perhaps legitimate j yet, with 
his frown to give such emphasis to its nervous, uneasy 
quality, it could seem almost like a trespass on her 
thoughts. 

“Well, according to what Mr. Carson told me last 
summer, they parted long ago,” she answered evasively. 

“Quite!” he retorted. “But I rather imagined, from 
what Carson said, that they were still friends. What 
does she say about him now?” 

He saw her sudden and unsmiling stare. 

“So you and Mr. Carson discussed me!” she ex¬ 
claimed. 

He flushed, but he managed to smile. 

“No,” he answered. 

“Well, you discussed Dannie and Nadya!” she con¬ 
tinued with no less ill-humour. 

At which he nodded. 

“Well, yes,” he admitted. “But quite casually, of 
course. Carson happened to mention Hinty one day 
when I showed him over the hospital.” 



RIVER OF TWISTED STAIRS 


291 


She made no comment; after a thoughtful pause, 
she went on with her work, telling herself that her chal¬ 
lenge had been rather foolish, if not unjustified. Should 
she show him Nadya’s letter? she asked herself now. 
Yet only might she dispose of his ridiculous curiosity 
at the expense of making him miserable. . . . “What 
if pity overcame her and she went to Hinty?” would 
be his inevitable reaction to it; and though she might 
assure him again and again to the contrary, it would 
not help him. She knew too well the self-destroying 
inconstancies of his lonely, unbalanced mind. That fear 
would linger, words and logic failing to dispel it. And 
he would torture her with it only a degree less than 
he tortured himself. 

No, she must not tell him! 

But, disturbingly, he was by her side. 

“Sorry if I’ve, angered you,” he began, “but—well, 
it struck me when you were reading that letter that 
the news wasn’t too good, and I—well, I could only 
think it might have something to do with him.” 

“Him? Hinty, you mean?” . . . She shook her 
head and smiled. . . . “I’m afraid you don’t under¬ 
stand us women. If I happened to look grim, I guess 
I was only reflecting Nadya’s mood. . . .” 

“Nadya’s mood?” 

“Yes, Nadya’s mood. Having discovered that she 
thoroughly loves her husband, she must now be thor¬ 
oughly unhappy about him also. . . . Will some other 
woman steal him from her? Will she always be able 



292 


CHINESE RIVER 


to hold him, and so on? And he has a weak chest, 
poor man! What if he picks up his balalaika and joins 
the angels?” 

She grinned. 

“Yes, aren’t we women ridiculous?” she exclaimed. 

“Hardly,” he answered, yet now he stared at her. 

“But what does she say about Hinty?” he added. 
At which she felt her composure weaken again. 

“Well, I thought I’d made it clear,” she answered. 
“Not a word about Hinty! She’s too busy talking about 
her man.” 

“I see,” he exclaimed. “Yes, of course.” 

He moved away from her. 

“Well, I shall have to be getting on with that an¬ 
nual report,” he murmured. 

Yet suddenly he faced her, pale, trembling, his 
hand raised almost menacingly. 

“Why lie to me?” he demanded. “I didn’t try to 
read that letter. But that girls’ handwriting is pretty 
distinct. I saw his name! Yes, I saw it. . . . Why lie 
to me?” 

She flushed. Unhappily she sat, slowly nodding. 

“You saw it? Yes, you did,” she whispered. “I’m 
sorry.” 

And then impetuously she was getting to her feet and 
pushing the letter into her hand-bag. 

“What if I lied?” she stormed. “Must I give you 
everything? Why not demand a total surrender? Why 
not claim me body and soul?” 

At which she flung herself out of the room. 



RIVER OF TWISTED STAIRS 


293 


XIV 

When her anger had subsided, she reproached her¬ 
self that her handling of that incident had been un¬ 
skilful. Better had she told him the truth. It was now 
in her mind to return to him and invite him to read 
Nadya’s letter. If he refused, they could probably 
laugh and shake hands. If, on the other hand, he did 
not, then she need not be too surprised or hurt. She 
could perhaps despise him. 

But could she despise him? First must one kill pity. 
And pity was an elusive rogue; importunate, insulting, 
yet ever defeating one. Pity died hard. 

She did not go to him, however. Too restraining 
was her pride; for that incident had been only one of 
several during those past weeks; and always their 
origin had been in that same thing—his absurd fear of 
anything and anybody that might threaten her alle¬ 
giance to him. 

She recalled how, two days ago, he had frowned at 
her announcement that she had been invited to a dance. 
It was planned for that night to come, its hosts being 
a trio of American naval officers who were surveying 
the river beyond Chungking with a view to instituting 
a more permanent system of gunboat patrol. 

The gathering would obviously be a simple affair, 
for, apart from the mission, the only place in Chwan 
Hu possessing a dance-floor was the Japanese-owned 
hotel down on the Bund. And a gramophone would 
supply the music! Nevertheless, the whole of the small 




294 


CHINESE RIVER 


foreign community had gladly accepted the invitation, 
including several of the mission’s womenfolk. Which 
had provoked Jennie’s protest to Lee. . . . “If they 
can go, why can’t you and I?” 

But he had remained irritatingly obstructive. 

“Please yourself, of course,” he retorted. “But I’m 
weeks behind with that annual report. I can’t afford 
the time. And if you go? Well, I don’t want to stop 
you, but there’s such a thing as keeping your dignity. 
I like these other men and women here to look up to 
you. For instance, young Clements and his crowd will 
be there. It’s a certainty they’ll be drunk.” 

She laughed. Though still he gave the mission his 
doubtful services, young Doctor Clements had aban¬ 
doned all hope concerning her many months ago. As 
soon as his meagre qualifications could find him a job 
elsewhere, he would be merrily on his way. “A frozen 
lily on a funeral wreath!” was now his description of 
her. “And the wreath is Lee.” But the mission’s grave 
and preoccupied principal had failed to keep pace with 
those light-footed processes of the young man’s not 
too stable mind. He still feared his contact with Jen¬ 
nie, unaware that Clements was now offering his ro¬ 
mantic wisdom to one of the mission’s own “converts,” 
a young and attractive Chinese girl who had lately be¬ 
come a nurse. 

However, Jennie had not troubled to argue with 
Lee on this. The dance, involving as it did a long trip 
down to the Bund by a sedan-chair, did not attract her 
too much, and, although she had not definitely decided 



RIVER OF TWISTED STAIRS 


295 


to stay away from it, she had not mentioned it again. 
But now, rebelliously, she linked it with their quar¬ 
rel over Nadya’s letter. She would accept the invita¬ 
tion, even if only to reassert herself. 

Dressing herself quickly after supper, she went, 
mischievously congratulating herself that she had not 
even troubled to inform him of her decision. If he 
missed her and suspected what she had done, so much 
the better. And if he were foolish enough to follow 
her, then he might stew in his own juice while she gave 
her company to any man who cared to claim it. He did 
not do so, however $ and at length she found herself 
having to choose unhappily between dancing on a tiny, 
overcrowded floor and joining the throng in the ad¬ 
jacent bar. It was while she stood irresolutely in the 
intervening door-way,’ wondering whether it was too 
early to go home, that she found herself claimed by 
young Clements. 

“Good egg! Didn’t know you were here. And 
you’ve left the old ball-and-chain behind!” he ex¬ 
claimed admiringly. “Nice work. I wonder how he 
likes it. Come and join the other mutineers.” 

At which, though she would gladly have escaped 
him, there was nothing for her to do except let her 
unaccompanied presence there be held up for public 
and doubtful applause. 

“Great little girl!” Clements was reiterating ex¬ 
travagantly as he handed her a third drink. “Boys, 
give her a cheer. She’s slain the monster, and with 
only the heel of a dance-shoe. And, if I may descend 




296 


CHINESE RIVER 


to the vernacular, there ain’t going to be no Cinderella 
act either. No, sir! She ain’t leaving here till the bar¬ 
maid’s song. And the barmaid’s married the brewer!” 

The night wore on. She longed for fresh air or the 
peace of her room. Yet always there was some new 
distraction to detain her, and when eventually they 
succeeded in making her dance there was not a fox¬ 
trot that she had not heard at some time or other at 
Hinty’s. . . . And Hinty sick; financially broken, per¬ 
haps; yet mute, uncomplaining, faithful still to that 
tragic role of gentleman which she herself had taught 
him. . . . “Am I tight? Good heavens, no!” she an¬ 
swered young Clements’ teasing inquiry. 

“Still, what if I were?” came the misery of her 
thoughts. “It might help!” 

But at last it was over. She and her companions had 
reached the mission compound. They still laughed, 
shouting and whooping like school-children as they 
crossed the courtyard. A young English nurse began 
singing a parody amateurishly involving Lee’s name. 
Jennie succeeded in silencing her. Yet she had dis¬ 
appointed the girl. 

“All right, all right, Miss Davidson. Too much 
noise. Mustn’t wake up the dear little sleeping Chinks. 
But you’re afraid of him, darling . . . afraid.” 

Afraid! Jennie itched to shake the girl. But she 
said nothing. In the darkness she was now silently 
weeping at the futility of that escapade. It had accom¬ 
plished nothing. 

Hinty! 



RIVER OF TWISTED STAIRS 297 

Lee! 

God help her! . . . Herself! 

XV 

She had expected to see Lee awaiting her. But she 
reached her room without challenge. 

Lee’s apartment was only a few yards away. He 
had never yet done so, but, if now he came knocking 
at her door to protest at the manner of her return, she 
could hardly resent it; for, even had he been asleep, 
he was now surely awake. But, though she sat for 
several minutes, preparing herself for that possibly 
stormy scene, he did not come. She began slowly to 
undress. 

Yet she did not sleep. Lee’s surprising and dignified 
silence could seem even more like a reproach to her 
than his angry outburst. And how ridiculous it had 
all been; how thoroughly deserving of his reproach 
. . . the young nurse, a mere girl, singing her drunken 
ridicule of him; Clements and his cronies deliberately 
staging a “rugger scrum” beneath his window. Yes, if 
only he came and she could utter her miserable apol¬ 
ogy to him, she might sleep the better. 

Suddenly, however, she sat up listening. Out in 
the corridor she heard heavy, blundering footsteps; at 
which her thoughts instinctively flew to young Clem¬ 
ents. He had not yet gone to bed; perhaps, even, he 
was coming to her room. Then, even as she sprang 
out to bolt her door, it had opened. 



298 


CHINESE RIVER 


“May I come in?” she was addressed. But it was 
not young Clements. It was Lee himself, fully dressed, 
and probably more full of liquor than ever young 
Clements would find physically possible. 

But there was no resentment in him. He laughed 
good-humouredly. Fixing his gaze on her easy-chair 
for a moment, he lurched to it and sat down. 

“So you’ve beaten me . . . back first!” he teased 
her. “Well, I’ve always thought those young cubs of 
mine were a poor lot of drinkers. They can’t hold the 
stuff. I guess the whole cissy bunch of ’em have passed 
out.” 

She glanced fearfully at the door, wondering if peo¬ 
ple in the adjoining rooms had heard him. But she 
could not be angry. 

“Why don’t you go to bed?” she murmuredj and 
then: “Aren’t you foolish? Whatever made you do it?” 

He chuckled. 

“That’s a very beautiful night-dress you’re wear¬ 
ing,” he exclaimed. “But what made me do it? Well, 
if half the mission can go boozing at that third-rate 
Japanese pub, I can take a holiday also. . . . 

“Yes, and show ’em how to do it better,” he added 
hugely. “I’ve been to Shiao Ma!” 

“Shiao Ma?” There came her shocked and only 
half-believing echo. She had heard of Shiao Ma. Who 
indeed hadn’t? In the waterside district of Shiao Ma 
was localized all the town’s vice. The tea-houses were 
there, the gambling-houses, the brothels. But a white 
man going to Shiao Ma! One heard of it rarely. 



RIVER OF TWISTED STAIRS 


299 


He saw her agonized frown and laughed. 

“Don’t worry!” he assured her. “I merely watched 
the ‘all-in’ festivities and spoilt a few bottles. And 
pretty poor stuff it was!” 

But his grin died. He became suddenly and morosely 
challenging. 

“Still, supposing I had stepped out? Half of the 
young cubs you were dancing with tonight would seduce 
the first woman they looked at—that’s if they could 
get her drunk enough.” 

“But there’s a difference, surely.” 

“Yes, a great difference,” he retorted. “One thing’s 
honest, and the other—well, ninety per cent of your 
modern menfolk are born without guts. Rather than 
imperil their precious reputations, or risk their pretty 
skins, they’ll make cheap, flimsy love to some poor 
dazzled shop-girl or borrow somebody’s wife. Respec¬ 
tability! Decency! . . . Sure! Why shouldn’t I go to 
Shiao MaP Is there anything cheating or dishonest 
about it?” 

And then, observing her unhappy silence, he sub¬ 
sided and grinned again. 

“Yes, I surprise you!” he uttered. “Lee, the mis¬ 
sionary! Lee who teaches God! . . . Lee who, ac¬ 
cording to that bunch of smart Alecs you were hitting it 
up with tonight, isn’t a man at all . . . just a sexless 
monstrosityj half monk, half rabbit!” 

“Don’t!” she pleaded. And then: “I’m sorry! It’s 
my fault; all my fault.” 

• Yet he shook his head. 





300 


CHINESE RIVER 


“It’s my fault,” he contradicted her. “My fault, 
because Pve given them something to laugh at. Be¬ 
lieve me, there’s no heroism in restraint, no glory in 
doing without. The world calls it abnormality . . . 
deformity! 

“But you’re very beautiful,” he added strangely. 
“The world would understand you better.” 

At which, impetuously, he was getting up and tak¬ 
ing hold of her; pressing his lips to her white throat, 
her breasts; crying hoarsely her name. . . . 

“Jennie! . . . Jennie! I’m just as they are. Jen¬ 
nie, I could take you now!” 

At last she freed herself. Trembling, and a little 
afraid, she faced him. 

“Yes, I know. But why?” came her piteous entreaty. 
“What do you want of me? I don’t understand.” 

He laughed, drawing himself erect and straighten¬ 
ing his tie. 

“Don’t worry!” he exclaimed. “The symbol is as 
good as the deed. I only want you to know it. I could 
have taken you—held you—just as they. No, they 
needn’t despise me.” 

And then he answered her. 

“Why?” he echoed. “Well, it’s this! Having proved 
myself, having put myself right in your eyes . . . your 
eyes as a woman ... I’m taking the only sensible 
way. I’m sending you back to him.” 

“Back to him?” 

He grinned at her amazement. 

“Yes, back to him!” he repeated. “I don’t know 



RIVER OF TWISTED STAIRS 


301 


what was in that letter; I don’t even care; but you 
still love him. Tell me the truth—you do!” 

“I don’t know!” she faltered. “Perhaps! 

“But what of you?” she asked suddenly. 

He went to the door. He stood there, gripping its 
handle. 

“What of me?” he echoed. “Why worry? You 
love him. . . . But Pm staying here, seeing it through; 
they need me. And even if I go to Shiao Ada a thou¬ 
sand times, it won’t matter. They’ll still need me. I 
can still serve them. Well, good night!” 

He took her to him, kissing her again. Then, 
abruptly releasing her, he opened the door; he went, 
his laugh echoing after him. 


XVI 

She put out the light. A little apprehensive even 
now, she locked the door. But she could not sleep. 
She lay there, as often she had done, musing on that 
strange mental pattern of him ... his strengths, his 
weaknesses, the hundred-and-one things that still eluded 
her understanding. 

Yet on this night she had come to understanding 
him more than ever she had done before. Strange 
that she owed it to a flash of drunken confession which 
tomorrow he would probably regret. But she would 
not question it on that account. It had shown her the 
man as surely as though she held a mirror to his 




302 


CHINESE RIVER 


mind; yet, ironically, the very man who most of all 
would have hidden himself from her. 

She recalled his fierce, parting kisses; the manner 
in which he had claimed that intimacy, reckless of her 
reproof. He had been drunk, yes! But it was not the 
blind animalism of one who was beyond reasoning. 
There had been thought, plan; the sensibility that de¬ 
manded courage of him. And had he realized that it 
was his triumph over her? Perhaps! But one did not 
deny him his triumph; for one hated not courage but 
only the cowardice in a man; the bargaining hesita¬ 
tion, the caution. 

Yet as quickly as he achieved that triumph, he had 
thrown it away. 

“Pm sending you back to him!” he had said. His 
laugh had risen even as he closed the door against 
her and was gone. 

She pondered that strangeness . . . And he had 
been to Shiao Ma , the dark, evil place which the white 
man sought rarely. Remembering that confession, she 
shuddered for him. But he had defended his action, 
hugely, challengingly, making the respectability of the 
great middle-class mass to which she belonged seem 
mean and snivelling by contrast. . . . The seducers! 
he had said; the wife-stealers; the narrow-gutted play¬ 
ing for safety. She had been unable to answer him. 

And he would go to Shiao Ma again. 

Nevertheless she must ask herself, was he sincere in 
that threat?—the thought recalling inevitably the morn¬ 
ing when, coming from saying farewell to old Carson, 




RIVER OF TWISTED STAIRS 


303 


she had found Lee toying with a revolver. Surely he 
had planned to frighten her; and now once more he 
had laughed as he laughed then . . . the laugh of 
one who risked his all on the last desperate toss of a 
coin. 

Yet if he were insincere, what now would it advan¬ 
tage him? He had offered her again her freedom; nay, 
more, he had commanded that she take it. I am send¬ 
ing you back to him! There had been finality in that 
speech, dismissal! 

And if she went? ... At which her heart leapt 
strangely. She sat up in bed suddenly. She switched 
on the light. How many times had she sighed over 
that postscript to Nadya’s letter? Yet she must read 
it again. 

. . . Sick—darned sick. After Christmas he's got to 
go into hospital ... he doesn't care. ... But some¬ 
times I dream about Dannie , seeing his eyes—the day 
you left him. 

Yes, she remembered that look in his eyes. Would 
she ever forget it? And now! . . . Sick—darned sick! 
He doesn't care. 

Resigning herself to sleeplessness, she got out of 
bed and paced the room, halting at last by the window 
and gazing out from it. Down below in the moon¬ 
light lay the huddled roofs of Chwan Hu; like a 
tense silver ribbon beyond them, the river. But no 
longer did she frown at the river. So many hundred 







304 


CHINESE RIVER 


times had she looked on it that it had become familiar, 
ordinary, its cruelty and horror forgotten. One saw it 
now only as that sole precious link with the civiliza¬ 
tion which she had left behind . . . Chungking, 
Wanhsien, Ichang, Hankow! One tabulated its places 
like stations in a railway time-table, with Shanghai to 
foot them—a radiant gateway to the world! 

Shanghai! Her youthful imagination, starved and 
craving for expression, took impulsive, feminine tangent 
and savoured that name, giving it beauty, glamour, 
the quality of miracle almost. She saw its blazing sky- 
signs, the glitter of its stores, its thronged streets, the 
warm, endless intercourse of people in its discreetly 
luring hotels. When last had she bought a new hat? 
But greater than this was her thought of him. At 
Christmas, if she left on the morrow, she might be by 
his side. 

Yet she checked that thought. One might regain 
yesterday only by permitting its trespass upon today. 
And today and yesterday had grown subtly and 
strangely apart; the long days and months intervening, 
the year and more; the myriad microscopic events, the 
changing scenes, the swift, daily afforestation of one’s 
experience; the new, urgent aspirations, shooting up 
like grass at every rising of the sun. And Hinty in 
his lesser degree of experience would have travelled 
that road too—the hurt dwindling, one hoped; the 
initial stab that had inflicted it forgiven. Meanwhile 
were the new red wounds of today . . . gaping, un¬ 
washed. 




RIVER OF TWISTED STAIRS 


305 


“Shiao Ma! The hundreds who need him! The 
thousands!” 

She shut her eyes. 

There would be no sleep for her that night. There 
might be no sleep for the many nights to come. But 
suddenly she had quelled the trembling of her lips 
with the raw, masculine contact of a cigarette. Gazing 
then at the silver case which had held it, she snapped 
it shut. . . . And this was symbol! For shut too was 
now her mind. Lest it fail her, might it not open 
again for a long, long while. 

She had reached decision. 

Only would she permit herself one small solace. 
. . . “No, I don’t love him. I don’t think I shall ever 
love him. But his y theirs , anything while he needs me. 
. . . Dannie, I tried.” 


XVII 

That next day was Sunday, but instead of going to 
chapel she remained in her room until nearly midday. 
Then, as was her usual practice, she went to the office 
to open the mission’s mail, looking for anything in it 
that might be important. 

But the letters were already opened, she discovered. 
They were spread untidily on her desk; while, stand¬ 
ing idly with his back to the fire, was Lee. 

He had not yet shaved, and, from the fact that he 
wore an ordinary lounge suit, it was obvious that he 
had deputed the taking of the mission’s Sunday-morn- 





306 


CHINESE RIVER 


ing service to one of his assistants. She was not sur¬ 
prised. Yet, if he was feeling the effects of his previous 
night’s dissipation, he did not betray it. He greeted 
her almost gustily. 

“Well, how did young Armstrong acquit himself at 
chapel?” he asked. “A good lad, but whenever he has 
to take a service he always reminds me of a schoolboy 
blushing over his first glass of port. He ought to grow 
a beard.” 

“I wasn’t there,” she answered. “I stayed in my 
room.” 

There came his swift, laughing comment. 

“Sleeping it off, I guess!” 

She stared at him curiously. Considering his recent 
behaviour, he seemed unusually self-possessed; even a 
trifle indifferent towards her. But she had awaited that 
moment of privacy a whole morning long. She had 
rehearsed almost every sentence that she intended to 
utter to him. Therefore, though his mood might be 
surprising, it need not affect her. 

Suddenly she went to him, offering him her smile. 

“Look here,” she began, “don’t let’s waste time. I 
think you know what I’ve come to talk about.” 

“Do I?” Grinning strangely, he had been gazing 
absently at the door. “Er—yes! I suppose so. You’re 
going back to Hinty. 

“And why not?” he added carelessly. “Good luck 
to you both!” 

She fancied now that she understood his mood. She 
shook her head. 



RIVER OF TWISTED STAIRS 


307 


“Don’t!” she whispered. “You don’t have to. Yes, 
I know you’re trying to be plucky. But it isn’t neces¬ 
sary any more. I’m—I’m staying with you; under¬ 
standing you. And you’d better know exactly what it 
means. It isn’t easy to put it into words, but—well, 
there was last night, for instance.” 

“Last night!” he echoed. He flushed; his grin 
died. “Yes, I was intending to apologize for that. A 
pretty low-down effort-” 

But quickly she interrupted him. 

“Don’t apologize. If you did, you’d spoil it prob¬ 
ably. The man who was trying to be something he 
couldn’t be doesn’t interest me any longer. It’s the 
other man, the man who-” 

She gripped his arms suddenly. 

“Don’t you understand?” she exclaimed. “It’s the 
darned suicidal fool who went to Shiao Ma that I’m 
talking about. . . . Listen to me! You don’t have to 
go there any more.” 

Then limply her hands fell to her side. 

“Well, that’s that!” she breathed. “I’ve got it off 
my chest. We don’t have to talk about it any more. 
All I ask is—well, be happy. For God’s sake take care 
of me. There’s nowhere else left to me except—except 
here! ” 

At last she knew that he understood. She looked up 
at him as she heard his great, jubilant laugh. His hand 
gripped her shoulder, dragging her back to him. 

“You’re staying with me?” he cried, unbelieving 


even now. 








308 


CHINESE RIVER 


“Yes!” 

“Belonging to me—always . . . understanding? 
For always!” 

She was trembling, but she nodded; she touched his 
hand. 

“My God!” 

And then again was his noisy laugh. 

“Jennie, it never rains but it pours. . . . Listen! 
When you came in, looking like a judge about to put 
on the black cap, I was going to tell you something . . . 
great news, wonderful news! She’s dead. I’d only 
that minute read the solicitor’s letter. My wife— 
dead!” 

“Dead?” 

“Yes, and I don’t expect you to say anything. I know 
how you feel. You can’t decently congratulate me. On 
the other hand, I can’t be a hypocrite and pretend a 
grief that doesn’t exist. I’m free—free! . . . All 
these years! 

“Free, and you belong to me,” came then his tense 
whisper. “Look at me. Tell me you love me.” 

She would not answer him. She could only try to 
share his jubilation. 

“Well, I can’t be hypocritical either,” she exclaimed 
cheerfully. “I’m glad—for your sake; for hers, poor 
woman. I hope you’ll be happy.” 

“Happy! Just wait and see. We’ll live, we’ll laugh. 
. . . Jennie, just how long would it take you to pack 
your bags?” 

“My bags?” 



RIVER OF TWISTED STAIRS 


309 


“Yes, clear out of here!” 

“You mean,” she faltered, “you mean you want us 
to get married.” 

“Sure! Why not? What’s the objection?” 

She forced a smile for him. 

“None, I suppose. It’s only that—well, it’s taken 
me somewhat by surprise j your being free, I mean. 
Still, isn’t it a little too soon?” 

“Why?” 

And then he nodded. 

“I suppose so,” he agreed. “The proprieties! One 
doesn’t mix the champagne with the ‘funeral-baked 
meats,’ and all that. A lot of humbug, considering I 
haven’t seen her all these years. However, we shall 
have to bow to it, I guess. 

“Anyhow,” he continued gaily, “you’ve said the 
word. You’re mine. The waiting needn’t bother us. 
We can spend the ‘discreet interval’ whacking up health 
and strength somewhere a little more salubrious . . . 
Japan . . . Ceylon . . . Honolulu. Yes, let’s get 
packed. Let’s be on our way. 

“But what is it?” he asked, for he must face newly 
her perplexity. 

She hesitated. 

“You want us to leave here immediately?” she ques¬ 
tioned. “Not come back! Even though we’re not 
thinking of—well, of anything serious just yet?” 

He nodded. He opened his cigarette-case. 

“Exactly, my dear! You’ve got it in one.” 

“What about the mission?” 




310 


CHINESE RIVER 


“Well, it will have to carry on without me. And 
won’t some of the bright young lads cheer!” 

“And you think you could get permission to be away 
that length of time?” 

“Permission?” Suddenly was his amused guffaw. 
“Pm not even waiting for permission. Pm through 
. . . throwing it all up. We’re never coming back here, 
or to any other darned mission, for that matter. Jennie, 
we’re free!” 

He chuckled j he strode to the window. If he saw 
her frown, it did not dismay him. He was grinning 
out to the courtyard. 

“God, how many times have I looked at that polite 
bit of nonsense!” he cried exultantly. “Hating it . . . 
longing to see an earthquake engulf it. And now Pm 
free! There’s the wide earth—people, places, money! 
Think of it, Jennie. . . . We can tread where we will, 
ask what we will. Yes, money . . . leisure . . . free¬ 
dom . . . everything!” 

“Money?” she echoed. “Excuse me, but what 
money?” 

Which forced him to turn and mark her pale, per¬ 
plexed face. 

“Gosh, don’t look so doubtful about it!” he teased 
her. “Oh, but—sorry! My fault! Pm so darned ex¬ 
cited that Pm forgetting to give you the essentials. 
. . . Yes, money! What money?” 

He paused, taking hold of her hands j making her 
wince, almost, beneath the burning intensity of his 
gaze. 



RIVER OF TWISTED STAIRS 


311 


“Jennie, it’s this!” he told her. “I don’t need to 
sweat any more. No more arguing with cheeky young 
puppies who think they know more of this racket than 
I; no more wearing myself thin for a bunch of darned 
barbarians whose only thought is for their bellies. Yes, 
pearls before swine! But it’s finished. There’ll be all 
the money I need. She’s dead . . . her estate ... in¬ 
vestments . . . property! But for that dam’ fool Eng¬ 
lish law they’d have been mine long ago!” 

He sat down, exhausted by his own emotion. 

“God, and how I’ve earned it!” he breathed. “Any¬ 
how, laugh . . . congratulate me! Free! You and I!” 

She did not answer, but he went on crazily. 

“And tonight we’ll fling a party. Let ’em know why 
we’re going . . . how we’re going!” 

And then suddenly she cut that delirious abandon 
short. 

“We’re not going,” came her strange whisper. “At 
least, not you and I together. Reproach me if you will; 
I’ve altered my mind again. But, this time, it’s stay¬ 
ing altered.” 

Incredulously he stared at her; his half-smoked cig¬ 
arette drooping pendulously from his lower lip; the 
colour playing fitfully on his lean, high-boned cheeks. 

“But you can’t be serious!” he protested. “It’s mar¬ 
riage I’m talking of . . . our marriage . . . happi¬ 
ness. Dammit, Jennie, you wouldn’t chuck away hap¬ 
piness and security. What’s come over you?” 

At last she silenced him. 

“What’s come over me?” she echoed musingly. “I 




312 


CHINESE RIVER 


don’t know exactly. But haf^inessy you said. And it’s 
a word you’ve often tried to explain to me. Happiness 
—unselfish giving . . . spontaneous giving . . . the 
casting of one’s bread on the waters.” 

Her voice quickened. He saw the dark, passionate 
blazing of her eyes. 

a And I’d find it here,” she went on. “Here with the 
little children, you said j the people . . . healing them, 
bringing laughter to them. Yes, and I’d be happy in 
making your happiness as well, even though I doubted 
you. Anyhow, your happiness was theirs, I told my¬ 
self. They needed you. I stayed. After which—well, 
I seem to recall a whole lot of insanity, a whole lot of 
self-delusion. There was a man, sick and broken; yet 
like a fool I shut him out from my heart. There was 
even a moment today when I’d have bartered myself, 
thinking to save you from a cesspool like Shiao Ma.” 

He was on his feet, but she would not hear him. 
Bitterly smiling, she waved his pleading aside. 

“Don’t, please, in case I laugh! No more melodrama 
. . . no more revolvers ... no more Shiao Ma . All 
you can say has already been said. You craved happi¬ 
ness; you’ve found it. You don’t need me any more. 
. . . And the little children, the old people? Well, 
as you say, they’re only a bunch of darned barbarians. 
Now that you’re free and leisured and happy, what 
do they mean to anybody except that once you made 
me weep for them?” 

There fell their long, deep silence. Only did he 
break it when he saw her going to the door. 



RIVER OF TWISTED STAIRS 


313 


“So that ends your promise to marry me!” he com¬ 
mented grimly. “My years of slavery and imprison¬ 
ment count for nothing. And now that I could make 
you really happy you’d waste yourself on a social misfit 
like Hinty. My God! Where do you think it’s going 
to get you?” 

She shrugged her shoulders. She sighed. 

“I don’t know,” she answered. 

“Still, seeing that we can’t leave the word happiness 
alone,” she added, “let’s say some more about it. 
Once you offered me a grand philosophy. Find a 
hundred per cent need to fill, and you’ll find a hun¬ 
dred per cent happiness. . . . Well, you may have 
been wrong, but I happen to know a hundred per cent 
need somewhere. I think I’ll risk a journey on it!” 

XVIII 

She was speeding down-river, through the echoing 
gorges, over the long, sinuous rapids. Chungking, 
Wanhsien, Ichang; they fell behind without even her 
thought of them j noisy Hankow, grim Nanking. At 
last she was by his side. . . . 

“Old boy!” she whispered. 

But he could not yet believe, despite the cool of 
her hand on his brow. 

“Huh, you don’t need to be making any more mis¬ 
takes!” he said. “Pm sick . . . oldish ... a fail¬ 
ure, perhaps. By the time they’re through with me, 
there’ll be just the steamer-fare home.” 




314 


CHINESE RIVER 


“Two fares, Dannie.” 

“Ay! And it would be kind of you. But think twice. 
Pm still in doubt about some of the fine things I once 
promised you. There’s still a vulgar streak in me here 
and there. To be a diamond requires rather more than 
just its polish, you know. Pll never make it!” 

And then, kissing him, she answered in that accent 
of his own fevered deserting. 

“Who the hell wants a diamond, anyway?” 


THE END 









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